


Cookies, Tea, and Ghosts

by larkdee



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Book 1: The Screaming Staircase, F/M, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 12:28:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 47,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13318089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkdee/pseuds/larkdee
Summary: After a case gone wrong, Lucy investigates the suspicious death of a young boy. But rotten seeds have been planted, and the aftermath threatens to rip Lockwood and Co. apart. Between the lies, distrust, and late-night snacks, there is only one thing to be expected: murder.





	1. the beginning

The sun was setting.

A subtle display of pink and orange streaks blossomed across the sky, trailing fat clouds in their wake. The radiance darkened and drained as minutes passed, counted down by some metaphorical ticking watch; as the sky darkened and shadows drew in, the bright hustle-and-bustle of London’s streets began to fade as well, leeched away with the color. It was slowly replaced by a much more  _sinister_ feel.

Night was approaching.

I pulled the blinds on the window and got to work. Four candles were carefully arranged on top of the dining table; after a few strikes of the matches and encouragement here and there, all of them were burning brightly. I picked my rapier up off the table, twirled it as I watched the soft flames with satisfaction, and then turned around.

My fellow colleagues were caught up in jobs of their own. Lockwood was pouring tea into three cups, his rapier resting against a chair on the side. To his right sat George, who was busily polishing his glasses.

"Are the candles lit?" Lockwood glanced up at me.

"See for yourself." I sat down at the table and reached out for a cup. There's nothing better than tea from the Pitkin Brothers of Bond Street to soothe your nerves before a job. And if George had brought the cookies like he'd said he would, then it would be all the better.

Lockwood appeared to have read my mind, because he said only a moment later, "What about the cookies, George?"

George settled his glasses onto his nose, let out a rude belch. "I put them in the bag."

Lockwood let his eyes wander across the cramped kitchen, from the gleaming sink to the curtained window, to the kettle resting on the stove, across the floor, and finally to the doorway, where all that could be seen was blackness. "And where, exactly,  _is_  the bag?"

"Lucy had it," George pointed out. They both turned to me expectantly.

"I definitely took it with me," I said.

"So where are they?" George asked. "Did you leave them at home? You're  _quite_ the professional."

I scowled at him. "I said I'd brought it, didn't I?"

"So where is it?"

I paused, hands placed defiantly on my hips, and frowned. I'd suddenly remembered stepping inside the house, chilly from the autumn air, and then setting the duffel bag down beside the door . . .

"I must have left it at the door, when we first came inside," I muttered sullenly.

"You'd best go fetch it then. Tea doesn't taste right without cookies." George leaned back in his chair and watched me smugly. Lockwood was bent over, hair flopping over his eyes, organizing the contents of his belt on a table beside him.

I finished off my tea with a giant swig and then stood up, sliding my rapier fiercely into its hilt. "All right—fine," I said. "But I get  _two_ cookies for this."

Lockwood straightened up. George cocked his head at me. The two boys looked at me with equally horrific feigned looks of shock.

"You mustn't forget the cookie rule, Lucy," Lockwood said seriously as he put on his belt. "It always applies."

“Always,” George agreed in a monotone. “Lockwood…you remember poor Robin, don’t you? He violated the cookie rule right off the bat.”

“And look at what happened to him,” sighed Lockwood.

“An  _absolute_  tragedy.”

I glared at them both. They maintained straight faces.

"Fine!" I repeated (rather lamely). I stood up and strode to the door, barging out into the hallway with a bit more force than needed.

The temperature outside of the kitchen decreased dramatically. I buttoned up my coat, flipping up the flaps to cover my neck. One sleeve was loose because George had stretched it while loading it into the washing machine; it kept on slumping down to reveal my bare shoulder to the chilly air. I hoisted the sleeve back up and continued.

The main hall linked to this smaller corridor, along which the doors to several other rooms were connected. A wider room curved outward to the right of the front door; I’d peeked inside earlier, and it was filled with elegant chairs and expensive wooden tables—a space where, presumably, rich people drank their tea and chatted about horse racing. Or something.

The house had belonged to someone, of course, but very long ago. If the contractor was right, it had stood empty for several years. We hadn’t had much time to research—George was uneasy about this fact, as usual, but I had little concern that there would be nothing we couldn’t handle.

We’d been doing well for ourselves, you see, in the time since the Screaming Staircase affair. We were well trained, efficient, and independent…I had confidence in our abilities. It was a strange feeling, this trust. I liked it quite a bit.

I reached the main hall almost without realizing, my steps soft and quick on the wooden floorboards.  _Snap to, Carlyle, snap to._

The door was just ahead. I skirted a low table and approached its dark wooden frame, hand reaching out to feel for the handles of the duffel bag. A prickle ran swiftly up my neck; I whirled around instantly, hand flying to the hilt of my rapier.

There was that uneasy feeling of being  _watched._

Moonlight filtered through the grimy upstairs windows to paint the floorboards below with a silvery sheen. Shadows lurked eerily around the brilliant spotlight. I took it all in as I shifted my gaze slowly around the hall. There was nothing.

I set my shoulders and turned back around, picked up the pace a little.

Sure enough, right beside the front door was a large duffle bag. I grabbed it by the handles and hefted it up. And paused.

One of the first lessons that agents learn, whether through lecture or plain experience, is to never ignore your instinct. And either I was just hungry and paranoid, or perhaps it was the leftovers of George’s beef stew from last night, but I had a  _feeling._

As if there were burning eyes out in the darkness, tracking my movements.

Watching me.

I picked the bag up again, moving casually across the hall. My breath came in small stutters— _the beginnings of malaise,_  I thought clinically—and the temperature was beginning to pitch downward into an unnatural cold.

All the while, I felt that gaze searing into my back with malice. One step. Another step. One more . . . then, dropping the bag, I whipped around on my heel, ears pricking, and pinpointed it before the thing could move.

It was coming from a hallway across the room.

It was very dark over there. The light didn’t quite reach, and instead slanted away in an abnormal arc, leaving the hall in its own smear of black. I swallowed down the lump that had begun to gather in my throat and Looked and Listened.

The first thing I noticed was the silence.

Typically, a house is never quiet, even in the dead of night. There are the skitters of mice running through the roof, or the creak of the wind across a door, or the slow drip of a leaky tap. Unnatural sounds are things to look out for, of course, but this…it was like all the noise had been torn away, leaving nothing behind.

And then I saw a shape.

It was small and slight, and it hovered at the very edge of the hall. I could barely make it out—my Sight has never been the best, that was Lockwood’s forte—and it blurred under my vision.

I was just reaching for the rapier at my hip when—

A scream—

It ripped from the hallway in a terrifying blast, growing louder and louder. I stumbled backward against the wall, clamping my hands over my ears, hissing through my teeth. The sound grew; it edged into whimpers, drawn-out and shrill. And then, just like that, it was gone.

The shape had vanished.

I lowered my hands, breathing hard. My heart was thumping wildly inside my chest, and a bead of sweat traced its way icily down my back.

" _Lucy_!"

I swiveled. Lockwood and George were standing some ways behind me, having burst out of the kitchen; the door swung closed behind them, pitching us back into semi-darkness.

"Did you hear that?" I panted, brushing back a few strands of hair from my face. I swiveled on my heel to face them, bracing one hand against the wall. “The _screaming_ —and I saw—there was…”

A cold wind brushed against my neck, as smooth and caressing as frozen fingertips. The stutters choked in my throat.

I stumbled a few steps forward, my whole body crawling, and whipped around to look back at the hallway.

It was completely empty.

"Move away from that hallway, Luce," Lockwood said sharply. "Don't turn your back on it."

I shuffled back to them, reattaching my rapier as I went. "Okay, there's  _definitely_  something in there. Before, I'd felt something watching me . . . and then I followed it here. That's when the screaming started."

They both considered me silently. They considered the hall silently. Lockwood hefted the rapier in his hand slightly; we were all still on edge, a tad bit jumpy, and I caught myself glancing over my own shoulder more than once. At last, our gazes flicked up to look at each other. I cleared my throat.

"Now, as for your unsaid concern about me wandering around, I would have fought off any attacking ghosts, gotten the duffel, and you'd have your cookies with tea, George," I said firmly. George rolled his eyes, but other than that there was no opposition to my far-fetched claim. We all knew that it took more than one person to fight off a ghost.

"The Source," Lockwood said briskly. "You found it already?"

"I didn't."

"D'you suppose...?"

Our eyes trailed down the hallway again.

"Down there somewhere is where the Source is, then," I said. "Hope nobody's scared of the dark?"

 

                                                                                                                 * * * * *

 

All three members of the agency Lockwood and Company stood at the end of the hallway, testing their own separate Talents. We looked. We listened. And in my case, I felt along the slick walls as well, using Touch to trace for any paranormal emotions.

"You getting anything, Luce?" Lockwood was scanning the hallway.

"No . . . no sounds at all. What about you?"

"There's a very bright glow at the end of the hall; it just about blinded me." As he spoke, Lockwood slid on a pair of sunglasses, which looked rather funny on him as we stood in the darkness. "It was like looking into the sun."

"It's the Source."

He flashed me a broad smile. "Right. Are you ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be." I held out a hand. "Torch, George."

George rummaged through his bag and handed us a torch each. I stuck mine in my belt, along with my rapier, several cans of hardy Greek Fire, and other life-saving essentials like lemon mints and spearmint gum.

"Let's go." Lockwood took the first step into the hall; he quickly disappeared into the gloom. George followed second, hauling the duffel along with him.

The torch strap had gotten tangled up with the hilt of my sword. While they walked ahead, I worked with frustration at the knot.

My fingers slipped on the fibers; I growled in frustration and  _yanked_  the torch. It slithered out of my fingers, spun in slow motion through the air, fell to the dusty floor. The torch bounced once, twice, then rolled and stopped against the leg of a velvet armchair; all around, the sound of its fall echoed loudly, startling the deep silence. I scrambled to pick it up.

"Lucy, what's going on?" Lockwood's irritated voice came echoing back down the hallway. "There's no time for this."

I scooped the torch. "I'm coming. Some stuff just got tangled together. Go on, I won't take long."

Their quiet footsteps resumed.

I tucked the torch back into my belt and placed a hand on the floor to help me rise. That's when I felt it.

It was a creeping, numbing sense of dread; so subtle I'd only caught wind of it when my arm felt too weak to push myself up.

Malaise.

For a moment, I just crouched there, feeling the yawning expanse of the house at my back. My ears were pricked; my breathing was slow. I pressed the knuckles of my hand against my cheek in a brief thought.

They were ice-cold.

I looked down; a light layer of ghost-fog swirled about my ankles. Something was coming.

I gripped my rapier, fought the malaise off with great effort, and stood up.

There was a young boy standing in front of me.

He was close enough to grab me by the shoulder, and I jerked back in surprise, nearly tripping over one of the mahogany tables. My hands fumbled, caught the edge of the wood.

_Deep breaths . . . inhale. Stay calm._

The ghost drifted closer, feet sinking into the wooden floorboards. His head was cocked to the side as he studied me with blank eyes.

By now, the Visitor had moved too close, closing the gap between us. I took a slow step backward. Then another.

The boy was young, or at least he appeared to be. He was around four or five, with tousled blond hair and brown eyes; the soft lines of his face were devoid of all expression. He was also, I noticed distantly, wearing blue footie pajamas, as though he had just slid out of bed.

Something stirred in me, then. I lifted my sword and pointed the tip at his chest. "Stay back."

His form trembled. That pouting, rosebud mouth drew together into a thin, hard line; he glided forward angrily as if daring me to skewer him. A bright white light shone gauzily all around him.

I stood firm, kept the rapier steady; the boy stopped a few feet away.

"Is there something wrong?" I used a quiet, even tone devoid of fear or anger. Visitors feed off of those emotions and grow strong. It's best to remain calm and cheerful, and hopefully, the Visitor will be passive as well. "Do you need anything? We can help."

He cocked his head slowly to the side again. There was a flicker; he was slightly transparent, so I could see past him to the hallway beyond. Then he became solid once more.

 _"Scared. I'm scared."_ His voice seemed to be echoing up from a deep well.

"That's all r—"

Now his impassive eyes glinted sadly.  _"Cold . . . it's too cold . . . somebody, please . . ."_

He reached out a grasping hand to me; I sliced at it with my rapier, and his arm moved fluidly back to his side. The boy opened his mouth wide and whimpered.

He was Type Two, all right, to be moving around and strong enough to communicate. And what was it that George always said?

That Type Twos always mean someone's done something to somebody. Murder, for example.

The whimpers continued, increasing in volume. They stretched into a high keen, and that into a full out scream, of rage and terror and absolute fear.The noise was unbearable; I doubled over in pain.

Then it all stopped.

I straightened up warily and watched as the boy glided backward across the floor, his eyes searing into mine, before disappearing into the gloom. My ears rang. I dragged a hand across my face.

And then, with a start, I realized:

" _Shit—_ Lockwood. George! There's a Visitor headed your way!" I cried. Then I drew my rapier and barreled down the hall after it.

The cloying blackness quickly swallowed me into its murky depths.

What was to be heard? There was nothing but the squeal of the aged floorboards under my hurrying feet. What was to be seen? Sight had never been my strongest talent, no, that was for Lockwood; still, I kept out a wary eye for any glowing traces of a Visitor.

"Over  _here,_  Lucy."

"George?" I felt forward with my hands and promptly smacked a thin figure. I leaped back. " _Ack!_ Sorry, Lockwood."

"Luce? Wait, no, no, put that away! What are you going to do, murder me?" A hand flew out of the gloom, towards my face, and then down to bat at my rapier, which I had half-drawn in surprise.

"I didn't know you were right there," I snapped. "What's happened? Why've you stopped? Did you hear me saying-"

"We heard you shouting. The Visitor came drifting down the hall just now, only it disappeared a moment ago. If you were a few seconds faster, you'd have walked right into it." Lockwood patted me twice on the shoulder. "You all right, Luce?"

"Yes," I muttered. "Perfectly fine."

"Are you sure?"

"What did I say?  _Yes._ Let's just get this over with." I brushed past, made as though I were continuing down the hall.

"Not so fast," George said from behind. "We didn't get a good look at the ghost. What did it look like?"

"Does this matter?" I complained.

"No sense in rushing into things, though we have  _already._ Again and  _again,_ I say we need to do research. Did we do enough research for this job? You tell me."

"I say we did." Lockwood's gloves snapped as he straightened them. "And I'm in charge, so—"

"—So it was perfectly all right in the Annie Ward case, then? You two rushed off, and look where that left us."

"We solved the case," I said indignantly.

"You  _burned the client's house down."_

"I was trying to help Lockwood."

"And he got ghost-touched anyway. Your fingers swelled up like sausages, didn't you say, Lockwood?"

"They did indeed," Lockwood agreed, "but that's not the point here. The point  _is_ that we need to find the Source. Lucy?"

"It was a young boy, maybe five or so. Pajamas, and…. a sad little face with most mournful eyes I'd ever seen. That good enough?" I added brusquely.

"Did he say anything?" George proceeded to check his belt-thermometer. The luminous dial glowed, giving our faces a greenish pallor, and I got to examine the two of them properly now. Lockwood was as impeccable as ever, and George as unruly. I could only guess how  _I_ looked then.

"He said he was scared."

"Poor little fellow." Lockwood swiveled his head slightly and glanced at the unnerving darkness beyond. "How's the temperature, George?"

"Twenty-seven degrees Fahrenheit. Almost half the temperature in the kitchen." George put the belt-thermometer away, and immediately we were plunged back into the darkness.

We began walking again, slowly, in a straight line with Lockwood in front and George in the back. I stubbed my toe on the leg of a side-table and cursed quietly.

George was muttering again behind us.

"What  _is_ it, George?" I bit at him.

"You two never listen to me, do you?"

"Back to this again?" Lockwood said wearily. We'd stopped again, as he cautiously (cautiously, I thought impatiently, sometimes has a fine line between that and  _paranoia_ ) scanned the area ahead.

"Yes! The thing is, while you two might  _scoff_  at it, research is important. It could have saved us a great deal of trouble in the Annie Ward—"

"Is that your only point, George?" I asked him disagreeably.

" _No._ I'm just saying that this ghost could be more dangerous than we think it is. And we wouldn't know until we're all ghost-touched and lying blue and swelling on the floor," he added darkly.

"How cheerful," Lockwood said. "We should have  _you_ write the Christmas greeting cards, George. Now—look right ahead!" Lockwood exclaimed suddenly, gesturing down the hall. I looked forward, my hair whipping across my jaw, and there he was.

The little boy shone brightly in the dark. He stared at us solemnly, then turned and drifted into a room.

Like moths to a light, we hurried after him. George was lagging slightly behind me, while Lockwood cut ahead, his figure casting a slim shadow through moonlight dripping from a window above.

"Temperature's dropping!" George cried out; the green light from his belt-thermometer flashed across the wall before fading out.

My fingers were crisp with cold, and I was sure that if it were brighter I'd be able to see my breath steaming in the chilly air. I shivered; goosebumps stood up on my arms, and I thought longingly of my comforter back at home.

"Twenty degrees . . . now fifteen . . .  _thirteen_  . . ." George stopped dead in front of the door. We paused. Looked in.

I could feel waves of cold flowing out the doorway; ghost fog slithered over our boots. As I peered inside, I could make out the form of a motionless rocking horse, framed eerily by moonlight. Beside it was an equally still bed.

"No noise," I reported. "But there's something wrong about it. D'you feel it, too? Something . . .  _off._ "

"That's usually the way of Sources," Lockwood said lightly. "I wouldn't think much of it."

"It's a bedroom," George said. "He probably died here. What do you think, an iron-and-salt field?"

"Best option there is," Lockwood agreed. He knelt and unzipped the duffel, handing us sacks of iron filings and bars.

An iron-and-salt field was when the Source of a ghost was a single room. The best thing was to knock the room down and renovate, or if you were going cheap, to set up iron around the room, but that was to be done during the day.

I took a bag, weighed it in my palm, and then turned to the others. We looked at each other briefly. Lockwood opened his mouth to speak.

The loud sound of crunching startled us both.

"George!" Lockwood reproached, swiveling on his heel. "What are you— ah . . ."

The other boy blew crumbs off of his fingers and reached into the plastic baggie for another cookie. "A bit salty. Goes to show to never let Lucy bake the cookies."

" _Lockwood_ baked the cookies," I snapped back. "And what happened to the cookie rule?"

"There's no rule against  _this,"_ George replied emphatically. He looked me in the eye and took a bite of the cookie. "One cookie, you see?"

Lockwood was watching the two of us bicker with one eyebrow raised.

"George."

The plump boy dusted off his fingers. "Yeah?"

"Hand over the bag."

We cut quite a picture: Lockwood, leaning elegantly against the wall, George standing stolidly beside him, and I against the far wall, all of us eating cookies; and right beside us, the Source was looming, ghost fog trickling out and smothering at our ankles.

At last, the bag was crinkled and the last crumbs had been pecked at.

"Those cookies weren't salty, George," Lockwood declared. "Perfect, in all areas."

"Goes to show what you know about food."

We rechecked the duffel and stalled for a bit more (George insisted on taking the temperature of various locations around the doorway, and Lockwood had a few scratchy crumbs in his gloves that he tried to shake out) before I finally made an impatient noise in my throat.

Lockwood smiled apologetically and slipped his gloves back on. "Should we continue?"

"Wait _. . ."_ George said, hovering over a corner with his glowing belt-thermometer. "Just need to take this last measurement—"

"George."

" _Fine."_

"Are we all set? Are the cookies eaten, rapiers here, buttocks still attached?"

"Yes, yes, yes, and I don't get the last one." I shifted from one foot to another, practically quivering with restlessness.

"Old humor. You wouldn't get it." Lockwood waved a hand to the door. "The Source awaits."

I set my shoulders and stepped in first.

The first thing that struck me was the cold. It was bitterly so, and I clenched my teeth to stop them from chattering. The second thing was the sudden wave of malaise; I felt heavy and numb; there was nothing worth living for anymore. Why would there be, when I felt this empty?

The third thing shocked me out of the first two.

Lockwood and George were about to enter the room when the door creaked, a hard wind blew, and it slammed shut on their faces.

Locking me in.


	2. matthew

For a precious moment, my breaths steaming in the chilled air, I just stared at the closed door. This . . . was an agent's worst nightmare: separated from the group, alone with a Visitor, alone with your thoughts and the spooks and your screams.

The door rattled on its hinges, pounded from the other side, aged wood hissing. Lockwood and George’s voices in the hall were murmuring, the tone frantic and upset.

I reached out to fiddle the doorknob. It was icy to the touch. When I pulled, straining at the handle, the door remained stubbornly closed. I tugged again. The door jarred in its place. I pulled harder—closed still.

Something was shifting in the room at my back, quiet and slithering and almost inconspicuous, but there nonetheless. There was an intruder in its territory. The beast was awakening.

I swiveled on my heel, gaze sliding slowly across the room, and that's when it all kicked in. In the books, when the protagonist is in danger, time always seems to slow. I’ve found, over the years, that it’s really quite the opposite. It speeds up instead, and leaves you pummeled and sick and gasping.

I swallowed down the hard lump of panic that was gathering, and instead took stock of my situation.

Deadly ghost, room with Source, locked door, and me. There was also Lockwood and George, but they were currently useless and out in the hallway to cool their heels. All in all, not a perfect situation.

The door rattled on its hinges again.

"Don't let it get close, Lucy. You hear?"

"I know, Lockwood."

"If it does, don't hesitate to skewer it. One thrust and you get at least ten more minutes."

"Mmm."

"Is there an exit in there, Luce?"

I looked at the walls. There was a window on the side, its drapes fluttering, and the glass was shining pristinely. I could swing my rapier at it. The whole thing would shatter with ease.

"There's a window," I replied. My fingers were beginning to freeze even through their gloves; I rubbed them together absently, pulled up my sweater. It drooped back down again, leaving my shoulder to the chilly air.

"Then break it and come back here. We can find another case, no trouble, but it's a whole lot more difficult to find another assistant that's actually bloody good at their job."

"I can find the Source, Lockwood."

" _Lucy."_

"Shut it. I can do this. Plus, we need the money."

"Lucy! This is an  _order—"_

George's low voice broke in, they argued for a moment, and then all other noises subsided.

I let myself examine the room properly for the first time.

It actually wasn't as dark as I'd thought; moonlight wilted in through the cracks of a boarded-up window. These spears of light traversed across the floor to puncture my shifting shadow. Against one wall was a small bed the size for a young boy, a weathered teddy bear lying atop it. It was slightly eerie, as if the child had been plucked out of the scene, and his bedroom catapulted into the underworld.

I advanced slowly across the room, stepped cautiously onto the carpet; it crackled dryly under my feet as I proceeded toward the far wall. The first thing to do was to ring up a place of safety.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I fought my feelings of unease away, tried to focus on the task at hand as I put a hand on the wall and took a deep breath. Frigid air gnawed hungrily at my bones, and I took a precious second to tug on a pair of gloves.

A rustle came from the other side of the room.

I turned quickly, hand flying to my rapier, and spotted something shifting in the shadows. It took a step toward me, reached a hand out. I whipped out my sword.

It disappeared.

Another rustle. My eyes swung frantically about the room. The air suddenly turned chillier, if that were even possible, and hand reached out of the wall beside me. It grasped urgently in my general direction, ghost-fog spilling from its pale fingertips.

Something large and swollen choked in my throat. I took a wild swing at it with my sword. The hand retreated; for a moment the room went completely silent.

The ring of safety, I needed to make—oh, _damn_. The iron chains. They were in the duffel. Which was, at present, in the hallway with George and Lockwood.

I gritted my teeth and knelt down, eyes flicking to and fro. My hands trembled slightly as I grabbed my sack of iron filings. It was the best there was right now, and I had to make do, though I wasn't happy about it.

I sat down in the center of the ring, lay my rapier in front of me. The room was still frozen and quiet. Outside, trees bobbed and swayed in the wind; in the hallway, I could hear no sounds. Where were Lockwood and George? I pushed the thought out of my mind, clenched my jaw, and called out to the ghost, hating the faint quiver in my voice and the way my stomach was squirming. There was no denying that I was afraid.

But anyone would be.

"What do you want?" I called.

A strong wind blew within the room, and the filings shifted slightly. I strained to listen.

There was a faint whimper. It echoed throughout the room, coming closer and closer, like ripples in a pond. I quickly popped open my eyes, expecting the ghost to be standing at the edge of the iron filings, but he wasn't.

He was standing right beside me, inside of the ring.

There was no time to scream or yell. I simply exploded out of my seated position, snatching up my rapier as I went. Across the room I bounded, heart beating an insane rhythm, to the bed. I stood warily against its cold blankets.

The filings had shifted, being the weak things that they were—a demonstration of his power. And to shift the filings?

He had to be a strong, strong Type Two. And I had to trounce him. Alone. Myself. This was certain to be interesting.

"What happened to you?" I asked, eyes darting around the room. "Can I help?"

His ghostly sheen glimmered, a pearly vapor that clung to him like a cloak. There was no answer. Just rustling in the corners, and that unreadable expression. I was surprised he wasn't already in action, feeding off my fear like the child he was on candy he could no longer eat.

I took a few deep breaths, shifting lightly on my toes, taking advantage of the lull in activity. A filing skidded across the floor and bounced lightly against my trainer.

Suddenly, the boy moved.

He surged toward me like a wave, face distorted and terrible. An earsplitting wail rang out; I screamed in pain, ears buzzing.

I barely had time to think, so I just reacted. I pulled up my rapier, falling across the bed. The teddy bear tumbled forward, brushing against my hand, and fell to the floor.

The cold chill from my rapier made the Visitor surge away. He swooped back around, a hissing sound escaping through his teeth. His eyes locked on mine.

The rapier wormed its way traitorously from my hand and fell to the floor with a mournful clatter. My legs were trembling; my lips were blue with cold; my ears rang. I stooped to pick my sword up. A strong wind gusted, and the rapier flew across the room to stick into a map of the world, the point jabbing into the Pacific Ocean.

I watched the ghost approach, and straightened up slightly, brushing the hair away from my face. I took a deep breath. Steadied myself. If this was how things went down, then Lucy Joan Carlyle went down  _fighting._

My hand slid toward the Greek Fire at my waist—bother to burning down another client's house, this was life-and-death here—and the boy hovered over me, his young face surprisingly gentle. One pale white hand reached down to caress my cheek.

" _I'm so lonely . . ."_

I reached out a hand to uncap the Fire.

At which the boarded-up window shuddered and shattered, the boards clattering across the floor and glass spraying across the room.

Lockwood and George vaulted through the window and skidded across the chunks of glass, flailing their arms rather ungracefully; Lockwood caught himself against a drawer, slipping, and George fell face-flat on the rug. Even at a time like this, I resisted a snort at my colleague's antics.

"Hey, Luce. How're things working out?" Lockwood picked a sliver of glass from his hand.

The boy turned, distracted; in that moment, George tossed me his own rapier, and I caught it in one hand. A step forward, a nice thrust with the arm, and I stabbed the Visitor right through.

The boy's form flickered, like a bad projector, wavering in and out of view. He finally separated into thin wisps of plasm that began wafting away into the still air. His mouth opened in a soundless howl; then he disappeared entirely. He wouldn't be gone for long, as it would only hold him off for a bit. He'd come back even angrier, too. That was the downside of stabbing a Visitor.

There was a dead silence.

I jerked my rapier back toward me and wiped the excess plasm on the bedspread, awkward under the tense stares of Lockwood and George. A ghost hadn't rattled me like this for a long time. I was feeling numb all over, especially in my shoulder. I reached up a gloved hand and rubbed it absently, my heart drumming wild staccatos against my chest.

Lockwood was now poking around the room, making a careful trail of filings behind him. He seemed quite unruffled, though his hand stayed on the hilt of his rapier at all times. At last, he turned around and joined George in the center of the room. His eyes, which were the color of freshly made coffee, focused on me with concern.

"I must be sounding quite repetitive, but I'll say it again: Are you all right, Luce?"

I lowered my hand, shoulder throbbing in sync with my heartbeat. "Quite, Lockwood. And you don't have to spread those filings all around the room, because—" I broke off in midsentence as my shoulder gave a particularly nasty throb. "Ouch."

A sudden, icy thought laced through me; I leaned against the wall and pulled down the sleeve of my coat with numb fingers to reveal my bare shoulder.

It was swelling, turning a nasty shade of blue, and the veins within stood out against my flesh. After a brief, stunned moment, I released the sleeve, jammed my fingers into my pockets, and slouched back against the wall. My eyes fixated on a certain crack in the ceiling; I stared at it for a moment, mind moving more sluggishly than normal.

I'd been ghost-touched.

"Is there a problem?" George spoke up. "I mean, sure, we could stand around here all day if you want . . ."

"What? No. Shut up, George." I hauled myself into a standing position, faced them, and then pulled down my sleeve with a sharp jerk. I glowered at them both, even though I knew it hadn't been their fault. I was just rattled. A hot bath, some cocoa, and a good bag of chips would do some good; that is, if I even survived.

In an hour, I could be lying stone-dead and blue on this same wooden floor.

"Ghost-touch," I affirmed to their surprised silence.

They both leaned forward, then back, their expressions changing to match mine: eyebrows lowered, mouths pursed, as we all stood there, our minds racing madly.

Within an hour, the rot would have spread throughout my body and enclosed my heart. We all knew what would happen after that.

"Time to call the police, then," Lockwood said swiftly. He leaped through the open window again, disappearing into the night. George followed. I lingered for a few moments, pausing to fiercely yank my rapier out of the wall. A large crater appeared in the Pacific Ocean.

By the time the authorities arrived, my whole left arm was throbbing and tingling, irritating me so much I was prepared to gnaw the thing off myself.

They seated me in the trunk of an ambulance, placing a folded blanket in my lap; then a few minutes lapsed by while several medics buzzed around like drunken bees. A medic holding a sanitary swab drew near, toting with her a needle that wouldn't look out of place when knitting a scarf. I grimaced and looked away.

"Just  _look_ at the size of that needle," George said with a straight face. "How'd you do it, Lockwood?"

"Very painfully, deputy. Very painfully."

I glowered at them both, and let my irritation swell; when the needle actually pierced my flesh I hardly felt a thing.

"Excuse me, but we'll need to take you to the hospital," the medic said, her hand closing firmly around my wrist.

"Huh? The hospital? What for?" I demanded. "I've got my shot."

"To check for shock, amongst other things." The medic looked tired—it was late at night, after all, and I felt a bit bad for drawing her out here.

"I'm not in  _shock,_ this is my job." I attempted to hop out of the ambulance. She yanked me back, and I glared at her.

George poked his glasses further up his nose and sighed. "Lockwood, tell her."

Lockwood's mouth was already open; he didn't need any more encouraging. "Just go, Lucy."

"Eh?"

"They need to make sure you're okay. D'you have money? You can catch a cab home." He smiled reassuringly at me.

"Wait! I need to tell—" The doors of the ambulance swung closed and my sentence was cut short. My words fell limply to the floor and were stepped upon as the medics hurried about, securing items and ushering me onto the cot.

How typical. How cliché. I'd needed to tell them something, something  _important,_ but now I was being whisked away to the hospital instead.

I sat on the cot, gritting my teeth, and allowed the woman to put a blanket around me.

"I'm not in shock," I said again.

"All right," she replied tiredly. Her pale gray eyes roved over my face, then to the hand that was cupping my injured shoulder, and finally to the rapier belted proudly at my waist. More importantly, to the insignia that had been stamped onto the hilt.

"Oh, it's you, is it?"

"Sorry?" I really wasn't in the mood.

"Lucy Carlyle. The girl with the amazing sensitivity to ghosts. You helped solve the Annie Ward case, right?" She wrapped a warm bandage around my shoulder, eyes searching mine.

"Well, yes, but along with the rest of my team," I said awkwardly. "It was pretty simple once you thought about it . . ."

"You seem to have a knack for solving mysteries," she said. "Hey, could you . . ."

"I think we're here."

She opened her mouth to speak again, but I was already out the door, hopping onto the pavement and starting off toward the hospital building. The sooner I could get this over with, the better.

Once inside, I was swiftly ushered to a special part of the hospital that specialized in agent-related injuries (ghost-touch, ghost-burn, frostbite, shock, stab wounds, etc.). I waited in a stiff armchair while a small boy that couldn't have been past ten took his prescription from the doctor, and then sat myself on an even stiffer bed while the doctor lectured me on things I forgot minutes later.

"Now, did you get all that?" the doctor cast a severe eye at me. I smiled back sweetly.

"Yes. Thank you. May I go?"

He grunted noncommittally.

I ended up leaving the hospital at midnight with a list of medicine prescriptions, a sticker on my chest, and an ice pack on my shoulder. As I crossed the parking lot with my hands in my pockets, remembering too late that I had left my wallet back home, a wailing ambulance pulled into the lot. I quickly scampered out of the way. I had to get home, there was no money in my pockets, my shoulder was aching again, and I was tired, I was  _hungry . . ._

"Do you need a ride?"

I instinctively balled my fists, turning around to face the direction of the speaker. Then I relaxed a smidgen, brushed a strand of hair out of my face. My eyebrows were probably lowered, making me look angrier than I actually was, but there was little I could do about that.

"Possibly," I replied.

"Money for a cab?" The medic that had spoken with me on the ambulance raised her eyebrows. Her gray eyes were questioning.

"No."

"I'm heading home," she said, sliding into her tiny red car. "Could drop you off, if you want."

I considered her for a moment. My aching legs and sore shoulder screamed for me to take up her offer; my better judgment shot their appeals down.

"No thanks, I'll walk."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Well, come here, I need to talk to you, Lucy Carlily."

"It's Carlyle."

She smiled faintly, showing that she didn't care one way or the other.

I slowly approached the car, my rapier hitting the side of my leg as I walked. It was a reassuring movement, as were the cans of Greek Fire that pressed uncomfortably against my stomach. These things were effective against ghosts, but they could work against troublesome people as well.

"Listen, Lucy." She leaned against the door of her car, keys dangling from her fingers.

"Hold on. You know my name from the papers, but I don't know yours." My eyes searched her watery gray ones. "So?"

She hesitated. The night sky above her twinkled with stars, and she looked up to drink the sight in before saying, "Meredith Watson."

"Watson? Where's Holmes?" I asked, not being able to resist.

"You don't know how many times I've been told that one."

"Sorry. Go on."

"I . . . well, to get straight to the point . . . for several good reasons, it would help me if you told me what occurred tonight."

"I don't see any reason why I should relate to you the events of this night."

"You have to."

"Right."

"My cousin owned the house before," she snapped.

There was a brief pause.

"There were a few odd things tonight," I answered slowly. "I . . . excuse me. I really have to go."

I stepped past her and crossed the street.

                                                            * * * * *

Meredith watched the girl go. Once Lucy Carlyle was on the other side of the road, the medic slid into her car and put her hands on the wheel. A deep breath, a lipstick-change, and a fluff of the hair later, the little red car was driving slowly across London Town.

After a drive across the city, the car parked at the curb of a quaint house. It had trimmed little hedgerows and a trimmed little garden, and a brick path led up to the front door.

The watch light sent an eerie pallor across the street, so Meredith quickly got out of the car and hurried up to the front door to ring the doorbell. Fog rimmed the sidewalk, and the woman glanced anxiously to-and-fro. It was both unwise and unsafe to be out at such a time.

Her cousin opened the door, clad in pajamas and droopy-eyed. "Meredith? It's late."

"Carla! Something's going on," the medic said in a rush. "An agency cased your old house tonight."

Carla blinked rapidly. "Oh, God. Can they even  _do_ that without my permission?"

"You don't own the house anymore."

"Well . . . come over tomorrow, okay? As soon as you can." She began to close the door, lips pursed, forehead wrinkled.

"Wait! One more thing." Meredith took a step back, jammed her hands in her pockets.

"Yeah?" The door halted in its swing, and Carla peered out, her face hesitant, almost afraid. "What?"

"I think they saw Matthew."

                                                            * * * * *

Lockwood and George were waiting for me when I got home, seated around the kitchen table with cups of cocoa and a crinkled bag of chips. I took my usual place, pulled some cocoa over to me, and put a chip moodily in my mouth. "Five miles. That's how far it is from here to the hospital. My feet are about to fall off."

"I take it you didn't get a night cab?" Lockwood asked, getting up to rinse his cup in the sink. His rapier was still attached to his waist; it clanked softly as he moved around. I let my gaze trail up from the insignia stamped to its hilt (it was nothing much, just words Lockwood & Co. in a deep maroon color) to his face.

"I didn't have any money."

"Er . . . sorry." Lockwood busied himself with the soap and water.

I took a sip of my drink, sighed, and looked over to George. He shrugged in equal apology. "How's the shoulder?"

"Stiff."

"It wears off after a couple of days," Lockwood said amiably. The cup in his hands was doused neatly with water, dried with an already soggy rag, and then put neatly on the shelf. The smelly stack of other dishes and silverware teetered in the sink; a few flies buzzed around it. "Looks like there's still more to do. How many plates did we use this morning?"

"We didn't have breakfast this morning," I said tiredly. "Went straight out to interview some client, I forget the bloke's name, and then we took the tube to the library, remember?"

"Ah. Yes. Then where're all these dishes from?"

"Probably accumulated over the weeks," George said. "I remember me telling you the other day that it was your turn. You just flapped your hand in the air and said you'd do it later. And now look."

The dishes in the sink wobbled rather nastily; a bad odor of fermenting spaghetti sauce floated over in my direction. Lockwood flashed a cheesy smile, bounded over, and took his seat. "And the washing up can wait still. Lucy had something to tell us, remember?"

I did remember.

"Right . . ." I moved my cup of cocoa to the side and found myself staring down at a sketch of Annie Ward. Her eyes burned into mine; I quickly placed the cup back over. "It's interesting, really. Interesting . . . and disturbing."

"Wait." George suddenly bounded off. His feet thumped away, up the stairs, and then on the landing above. I stared across at Lockwood, eyes asking a silent question. He shrugged his shoulders.

The feet came pounding back across the landing, and then down the stairs. George reappeared in the kitchen, a note-pad and pencil in his hand. "Got to take notes. Might require research. Am I right?"

"Right. Thanks, George. Anyway, so . . ."

"I take it that this event occurred  _while_  you were in the locked room?" George interrupted, pencil poised over the paper. I paused, gave him a short nod.

"Yeah."

"What did happen in there, Luce?" Lockwood asked. He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "It was amazing that you managed to keep it off your back for so long, with just iron filings."

I felt my cheeks flush a little at his praise. Something warm kindled inside me. "Anyone could have done it. Just a bit of swordplay and a ring of protection. He got me in the end, anyway."

"Quill Kipps would've been touched from the first second," George muttered, and we all chuckled slightly.

"Anyway," I said, taking a small sip of cocoa, "while I was trying to keep the ghost at bay, I fell against his bed. There was a teddy bear on it. It brushed against my hand."

Lockwood raised his eyebrow. "Your Touch? You felt something paranormal?"

"Yes. My Touch on that bear . . . it picked up on something horrible. First there was a trust, and love, and then suspicion and fear and a whirlwind of emotions, all of them bad . . . I felt that in a second. There was something wrong at the ending, too . . . the boy didn't end naturally." I gazed from Lockwood's curious face to George's expressionless one. "He was murdered. I'm sure of it."

"So the Source was the teddy bear?" George asked slowly. "Not the room?"

"Yes."

"The bear is still back at the house."

"I know."

"We'll have to get it."

I nodded, looked down, tried to block out memories of the little boy's contorted face and earsplitting screams . . . my hand gripped the hilt of my rapier tightly. "Tomorrow."

"I guess this means some research work for me, then," George said. He looked over his notes, which were awfully sparse. "The death of a young boy at 549 Sheen Road. Not much to go off of . . . I need more cocoa."

"Thanks, George," Lockwood said, as the rounder boy shuffled off. The cupboard door opened, creaked, and then snapped shut as our main researcher descended the stone steps into the hidden cellar below. I was about to take another chip when my shoulder burned nastily. I grimaced in pain.

"You okay?"

"No."

He smiled at me sympathetically. "Get a good night's sleep. You need it."

* * * * *

After an unpleasant dream in which I was trapped in a darkened house, a wisp of a dead boy floating beside me as I tried door after door in an attempt to escape, my eyes snapped open abruptly.

I woke to George slapping my face with a plastic folder.

" _Ack!_ Ow—George—"

"Wake up and come down to the kitchen," he said in satisfaction, and then left the room. I sat up blearily, pulled my covers away, and seriously considered chucking my slipper at his round head. Then I rolled out of bed, splashed some water on my face, changed with lightning-speed, and left the room.

Lockwood was already at the breakfast table, showered and dressed in another one of his too-tight suits. He was positively gleaming in the morning light. He smiled politely at me, gestured at a seat. "Morning, Lucy. Sleep well?"

"Sort of." I sat down. "Had a rather unpleasant wake-up call."

George put a plate of eggs in front of me. "You sleep like the dead. And there're loads of funny cracks that could go with that, but I'm going to refrain. Just eat your breakfast."

I stabbed my fork into my eggs and grumbled under my breath. "Whatever. Did you find anything useful last night? Or were you just eating apples and flipping through a huge tome? And playing with plastic folders?"

"Actually, yes, I did find some things. Many things, in fact." George stalked off and grabbed a stack of files off the kitchen counter; he tossed them at me, and I grabbed a few with a yelp. Lockwood caught the rest. A document fluttered down onto his sausages, and he eyed them with distaste.

I opened the first folder. "This is just a map of the house."

"Well, there's  _that_ and then there's . . . where is it?" George rounded the table and snatched a few folders from Lockwood. He riffled through them, put it to the side, and opened the next one. "Where is it . . . a good thing the Archives were open late last night, eh? Because . . . hm . . . aha!" He pulled a newspaper clipping out triumphantly. "Here!"

I took it in my hands, Lockwood leaning over my shoulder, and we read together:

**Scotland Yard has put a forty-one year old woman named Carla Callahan under some suspicion for murdering her five-year-old son last week. Her son, named Matthew, was declared dead at his home on Sheen Road late last Monday night. The paramedics on the scene described to us that he had "apparently accidentally swallowed a whole bottle, perhaps even two, of medicine pills. It is a tragic, tragic, death."**

**As Callahan's husband is also recently deceased from cancer as of last year, her close relative, a cousin named Meredith Watson—**

"Meredith!" I exclaimed. "I know her!"

"You do?" George set down another paper he was looking through and eyed me. "It was a hard job to find anything on  _her._ By my records, she's a medic. Good citizen, does some charity work each year, stays in the shadows a lot. How d'you know her?"

"She was the medic that treated me last night. Weird gray eyes and a little red car." I put the clipping aside and pecked at a sausage. "So Carla Callahan owned the house we were investigating last night?"

"It appears to be so." Lockwood took his seat again and dug back into his sausages. "And that ghostly boy we saw was her dead son. Poor woman, eh?"

"She was under suspicion for murdering her  _son_?" I took a bite of an egg. "Did she get let off?"

"Yes. Nothing was found."

We all eyed each around the table.

"If you're all thinking what  _I'm_ thinking," I said at last, squirting some ketchup on my eggs and watching it puddle like blood, "then we all think Carla Callahan is guilty of murdering her son."

No one else said anything.

I shrugged my shoulders and polished off my eggs. "Let's get cracking."


	3. the investigation begins

"Lucy, are you ready?"

"I'm coming! Just wait one minute, George." My eyes darted over the cramped attic that was my bedroom; sparsely decorated, it was just for the practical purposes of privacy and sleep.

"I'm leaving for Scotland Yard," Lockwood called from downstairs. "You two better be out of the house by the time I get back, or  _else._  I'm talking to you, Lucy. _"_

"All right, all right," I panted. I pounced onto the bed, ruffling covers and flipping over pillows. Where was it? Ah. There.

I snatched my rapier out from under the bed and caromed downstairs, taking the steps two at a time.

Lockwood was busily tucking folders and other pieces of George's research into a shoulder bag. As I hurled myself off the last step, he glanced up, the afternoon light staining his fine cheekbones a delicate gold. He smiled. "See you later, Luce. Wish me luck?"

"Good luck with Scotland Yard," I said agreeably.

Lockwood was going to Scotland Yard to explain past events and revelations, so hopefully they could take Callahan in for questioning. George and I had the job of going back to the house and securing the teddy bear.

"They never listen to anything I say," the lean boy muttered, tying one shoe and then the other. "I should send George instead."

"Why not me?" I protested.

"You're too hotheaded." He was grinning now, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his brown hair flopping across his eyes, the strap of the shoulder bag slung neatly across his chest. I smiled awkwardly back.

"I'll just have to march over there and convince them," Lockwood continued jokingly. "They'll listen, they have to. After all, I am the eloquent one. The dashing one."

"The one who has a lack of taste in reading material," someone said behind us.

I turned around.

George tossed the latest  _People_ magazine to Lockwood, who caught it expertly and quickly jammed it into his bag.

"Found it on the sofa again." The plump boy turned his gaze to me, focusing in on my rapier. "Found it at last?"

"Yeah."

"Let's go," Lockwood said. "It's only a few hours till nightfall. I'm supposing you two don't want to be caught in the house at dark?"

I shook my head vehemently. We left.

Outside, the air was fresh and cool against our faces. A neighbor next door was sweeping his yard, sending leaves and dirt swirling into the gutter. We waved. I closed the door behind us, turned the key, and Lockwood bid us a resigned farewell. He went to the corner to catch a cab, long coat swirling about his calves. George and I started walking, plodding methodically across the pavement.

When we finally reached the house, George was sweating and I was feeling the heat. A tree's long branches draped over a portion of the sidewalk, casting it into a chilling shade, and I looked longingly towards it before following George once again through the white gate toward the house.

We still had the key, tucked inside a paper envelope; George fished it out and stuck it in the lock. A jerk here, a twirl there, and the door swung open merrily. We looked at each other, and with the sun on our backs, stepped inside.

The afternoon light was already creeping through the windows to settle sleepily on the floor; seeing this, we made for the hall without a word. As we approached, I subconsciously reached for my rapier. All of our gear was back at the house; Visitors never appeared in the day, only at night. However, I hadn't been able to resist taking my rapier along. George didn't have his, or Lockwood either . . . they hadn't pointed it out to me, just flicked glances at it and then turned away. It was the agent in me, making me bring a weapon along, I'd told myself as I'd looked for it in my room. Nothing else.

I leaned forward, flicking my bangs away with a finger, to look at a picture mounted on the wall. It was a professional photograph of a family of three; a man smiling merrily, his wife beside him, beaming, and perched on her knee was the boy. He was flushed with the vigor of youth, his blond hair fluffy and his eyes sparkling, skin tinged with that healthy color that blood brings when it is still pumped strong through your veins.

I reached out a finger and lightly touched the side of his face.

"Lucy." George waved me over. I fell in beside him; we looked into the boy's room.

It was startlingly different from the night before. The sunlight, like the one in the hall, shimmered along the walls and made everything seem merry. A child's drawing of a train was stuck to the wall with more pins that necessary.

I tore my gaze away to see George carefully positioning a silver net over the teddy bear. He tucked the edges in, and then squeezed the bear into a glass jar that was a mite too small for it.

"Is the jar necessary?" I asked, wincing as the bear's face was squished up against the glass; his beady black eyes bored a hole into my forehead. One paw was pressed against the side, as if he were straining to get out.

"You said the Visitor was a strong Type Two. We can't risk it. Not like . . ." George cast a sideways glance at me. "Annie Ward."

I scowled at the memory, of when the ghost girl had appeared in my bedroom. All because I'd forgotten about the locket I'd placed in my pocket, the Source for her. And the Source for Matthew Callahan was this sad-looking bear . . .

"We've got what we came for, so let's go," I said abruptly, turning on my heel. "I've had enough of this place for a lifetime."

                                                * * * * *

When the doorbell rang later that afternoon, we set about with the normal routine. Lockwood spun acrobatically on his heel, headed for the door; meanwhile, George and I whirled through the kitchen, hands motoring, sending dirty plates into the sink and wiping the table of all curious substances. The thinking cloth was adjusted, apple cores chucked in the bin, and the plasm burns from last week were scraped off the cupboard wood. It was all timed so right that Lockwood was just leading our newest client into the kitchen when I clunked several mugs of tea onto the table. The table was looking rather barren, so I threw a plate of fruit and some leftover biscuits on as well.

We all sat down.

"George, Lucy, this is Julian Hart." Lockwood already had his notebook out on the table, flipped to a page as blank as snow. "Mr. Hart, my colleagues."

I smiled awkwardly.

Hart was a thin man with a sickly pallor; his blue eyes were covered with a light film, his skin was yellowing, and his veins stood out against his skin. I bit into a biscuit and wondered how he'd managed to survive a ghost encounter of any kind. The man looked like he'd fall apart at a single scare.

"Involved in the recent arrest, were you?" Julian Hart asked creakily. He pulled his mug towards him and sniffed the contents warily; I crossed my arms as the tea was examined.

"Of Carla Callahan, yes." Lockwood ignored the pained looks George and I no doubt had on our faces as Hart sneezed wetly into his mug.

"You had some sort of hogwash about seeing the murder take place?" Hart chugged his tea down and smacked his lips. He glanced around at us, sitting rigidly in our seats. A narrow finger pointed in my direction. "Her. She saw it, didn't she? With her little . . .  _hic!_. . . 'scuse me . . . Touch."

I met his gaze and subconsciously raised my chin a bit.

"Well, this isn't about past cases, is it?" Lockwood said. He twirled the pencil in his fingers in a pointed sort of way. "What have you come to see us about, Mr. Hart?"

"So you're the smooth, sly, secretive one, you. The leader. The snake.  _Harumph_." Hart seemed to have not heard Lockwood as he cocked his head in the boy's general direction. "And you"—he leveled his gaze at George, who flushed slightly but kept his fluttering smirk on—"are the sarcastic, pompous one. Bit podgy around the middle, aren't you?"

The two boys directed their burning gazes into their mugs.

"And me?"

Hart eyed me. "The tricky one," he said at last, and seemed satisfied with that.

The  _tricky_ one. Well, at least I hadn't been called a snake.

"Off topic, here." Lockwood steered professionally. "What were your experiences, Mr. Hart?"

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0oo0o0o

It was after we shut the door on Hart's back that I let myself chuckle. Lockwood looked at me curiously; George was still wearing a moody expression.

I pointed a finger that shook as I laughed, directed towards Lockwood. "Smooth . . . sly . . . secretive one . . ." I staggered towards the sofa and collapsed into it, burying my laughter into a cushion.

"Well, you're . . .  _tricky,"_ Lockwood said half-heartedly.

I laughed harder.

He threw his hands up in the air and left the room.

I pulled the cushion away from my face at last to find George sitting across from me, a newspaper in his lap.

He looked up in irritation as the laughter began again. "You're not even the slightest bit down?"

I was grinning. "About what?"

He thrust the newspaper about me. "There was a reason Julian Hart knew about Callahan's arrest. There's an article in here . . . right there . . . see?  _'Scotland Yard has made little progress in Callahan's case . . .' "_

My laughter had died away now. I snatched the paper away and read it through, my frown getting deeper and deeper. "It's been nearly a week! They haven't found anything?"

George merely shrugged and snatched the newspaper back.

"But they have Carla Callahan! It's her!"

Another shrug.

"Stupid Scotland Yard."

George sighed loudly. "You can be thick, can't you? Innocent until proven guilty, Lucy. Callahan  _hasn't been proven guilty,_ and thus she's walking free in a matter of days."

I glowered at the ceiling. "She seemed fishy to me."

"Unfortunately, 'fishy' isn't enough for police to go off of. They're not addle-brained like some people."

"I'm not  _addle-brained_."

"Did I say you were? Hmmm. No."

"You were  _implying_ it."

"Ooooh, scary." He folded the newspaper with a satisfied expression and left the room, leaving me lying on the couch in a swirling silence.

It wasn't the agency's job to go around solving crime. We were, as corny as it sounded, ghost hunters. Track down the Source, seal it up or eradicate it, and bam. The job is done. We'd done that at Matthew Callahan's house.

And yet I was still feeling that incompleteness. I  _needed_ to know what had happened to Matthew. It was driving me.

Maybe our current case would help.

                                                * * * * * *

The burnt-sugar sunshine that seared into the pavement began to melt, oozing as it crept backwards into the hedge bushes. The street was cold and quiet; everyone was retreating into their homes, locking the doors, perhaps eyeing their iron charms and adjusting them here and there. The ghost-lamps flickered in their holders, warming up for the long night. A wind sighed down the pavement, curled around a picketed fence that ran along a silent house. Within the wooden barrier a drab garden bloomed sullenly, and the trees hushed each other in the wind.

"137 Russel Street." Lockwood glanced from the address written in his notebook to the three numbers splashed in a curlicue gold across the front door. "This is it."

George pushed open the gate and we walked over a pretty pebbled path to the front door. No use in ringing the doorbell; Julian Hart would be sleeping at a motel with his wife tonight.

Lockwood paused on the front step, the wind blowing his long coat away from his slender frame. "All right. Let's run over the facts."

"Can't we get into the house first?" I muttered, shivering as the same wind cut smartly through my sweater and pierced the raw flesh of my healing shoulder. "It's freezing."

"London weather. Get used to it." George grunted.

"Not always  _freezing,_ though."

"Mmm."

Lockwood clapped his gloved hands together. "We'll be in soon. Okay. First off: Hart claimed to have woken up in the middle of the night, his neck prickling. He glanced around the room—"

"—and saw a black shape in the hallway," I finished.

"Lucy . . .well . . . yes." After a glance at our goose-bumped arms, Lockwood swept a key out of his pocket and began fiddling with the lock. "So Hart wakes up, sees a black shape which is obviously a Visitor, though his old eyes can't see it clearly, can he? He screams, pulls open a drawer and chucks . . . what was it, Lucy?"

"A boot."

"He pulls a boot out of the drawer and chucks it at the Visitor."

"Which does nothing," I chimed in helpfully. We're in the house now, which is comparably warmer than the gusting outdoors.

"His wife has woken up, opens  _her_ drawer, and throws a silver clasp at the ghost, which does a lot more harm and it vanishes on the spot. A Type One, obviously, because all it did was stand there and it fled after a whiff of silver." Lockwood picked a leaf out of my hair and tossed it out the door, his fingers catching on a few strands of hair before he pulled it away and moved off nonchalantly. I ran a hand through my hair, feeling curiously tingly, and tried to ignore George's large smirk.

"The ghost was there in the firstplace because the two of them are idiots," George snorted from behind us.

" 'Idiots' is a bit strong." Lockwood led us to the kitchen, a large, checker-tiled room next to the front door.

"They lent their iron charm to a visiting son," I said in disgust, "and thought that they'd be just fine. Eh, Lockwood?" That tingly feeling came again, and I slapped it away. Put on a bland expression. Tried to ignore the way Lockwood's hair—

What the hell was wrong with me? I'd never considered Lockwood romantically much before. Why start now?

I wouldn't, I protested to myself. We were just colleagues. Nothing . . . more. Ever.

Right?

Why was I thinking about this on a job?

It could be pondered on later, muddled with my thoughts on poor Matthew Callahan and his suspicious death. I shunted all Lockwood-romance-lovely hair-ideas away and began tugging a thick jacket out of the duffel bag.

As I slid it on, Lockwood threw the kettle onto the stove and began heating up the water. "I have nothing to say to that."

To what?

Oh. My earlier question.

George coughed pointedly beside me, and as my gaze flicked to him, he raised his eyebrows and made a kissy-face. A finger jabbed in the direction of Lockwood. Then at my face, which was surely flushing.

As Lockwood turned back around, holding cups of Pitkin Brothers tea, a hand reached subtly under the table and pinched George's thick wrist until he winced and scowled in my general direction. Teach him not to be so immature.

We drank up, set the candles and lamps alight, and tucked the last tools in our belts. George subtly sneaked a few crackers in there as well, and I followed his lead because of my grumbling stomach.

Outside, the last rays of the sunset were fading into a blood red sea. Purple clouds bobbed like ducks, and an airplane sliced through one as cleanly as a knife. Then the last bit of light trickled away and disappeared, and we were left in the dark.

I couldn't help but shiver a little as we moved out into the hallway that led into the bedroom. It mirrored the Callahan case so much . . . only this hallway was brighter, with a skylight above that let the moon's silver liquid gush inside.

It got colder as we approached the bedroom. George was examining his belt-thermometer, the green glow lighting up every contour to his podgy face. "Getting colder," he whispered through chattering teeth. "Fifteen degrees, and dropping."

"I should've brought a thicker coat," I muttered under my breath, which steamed a puffy white in the cold air.

A crunch beside me as George bit into a cracker.

We entered the room without anything dramatic. I did tense up a bit as we moved through the doorway, hunching my shoulders in and expecting the door to slam close any moment.

But nothing happened. After all, Julian Hart's ghost was only a Type One.

"Anything?" Lockwood asked us in a whisper, and we knew what he meant as we tested our Talents, looking and listening.

"Nothing," I said, at the same time George said hoarsely, "Behind you, Lockwood."

The lean boy spun around, his coat whipping around his thighs, without a hint of fear in his eyes. I moved around a drawer and bumped my hip into the bedpost with a hiss of pain.

Now that George had pointed it out and I knew where to look, the Visitor's form was clearly defined against the beige backdrop of the wall. It was an old woman, I could see, as I squinted; her hair was curly and white, and her eyes were a laughing gray. She was in her nightgown.

I had a sudden flashback to Matthew Callahan, standing serenely before me in his blue footie pajamas . . .

She did nothing, just looked at us, and then pointedly drifted backwards into the wall. She disappeared.

For a moment the three of us looked at each other, hesitant to see what we might discover. Then, without another pause, Lockwood swung the hilt of his rapier into the wall and made a large dent.

George and I joined him, digging into the wall and clawing out the plaster as flakes of paint rained into our hair like sickly snowflakes. When the job was finished about fifteen minutes later, we all stood back, panting.

There was a box hidden in the wall. About the size of two shoe-boxes, both side-by-side and stacked on top of one another.

Lockwood plucked it out, his fingers scratching against the splintering wood, and held it in his hands. We looked at it.

"Open it," said George.

Lockwood opened it.

Inside were stacks upon stacks of pounds, both the paper and the coin type. They were held together by paper clips and by rubber bands, a nice rectangle of money compressed to each other after years. Inside the box was a note.

I unfurled it with dusty fingers.

_Well, Thomas, if you're reading this then I have failed utterly in my mission. If you're not reading this, then my mission has succeeded and you haven't gotten your grubby paws on my money. Hallelujah._

_It may have seemed a bit extreme, to seal all this money up in the wall. But I am an old woman, and there is nobody I have left that I would like to give it to. I've always been an extreme sort of woman, anyway._

_I still love you, Thomas, but at the same time I do not. It's confusing. I'm muddled. I don't like the things you have done, but you're a fabulous kisser. How shallow of me, hmm?_

_If someone other than my ex-husband Thomas Hills finds this, then I should like the money to be donated to a charity or other good cause._

_And again, if you find this, Thomas, and spend it all on your stupid gambling, then I will personally write you a recommendation letter. Sent to Satan._

_-Lois Hanna Delaney_

_Aged 87, 1999_

                                    * * * * * *

 

Of course, we did as the letter asked. Lockwood and I had put in mournful suggestions about taking a smidgen of the money and using it to fix up our garden (the iron line was getting wobbly, and the brick path was crumbling, and there was the washing machine, too, that was beginning to break down . . .), but George had stood up, all no-nonsense. The fortune had eventually sailed, completely untouched, out of our reach.

After we'd delivered the money, Lockwood had dragged us off to go look at Italian rapiers. They were light, swishy things, and I practiced a bit with them on the store's dummy. At the end, I still favored my French rapier more, with its shell-shaped guard and leather grip. Thus, while Lockwood and George argued with the shopkeeper over prices (Lockwood had wanted to order a box of them, and the shopkeeper had named a sky-high price), I waited outside.

Bored, I soon found myself thinking of  _him_ again. Matthew Callahan. That poor dead kid . . .

And as fate would have it, the moment my colleagues emerged triumphantly from the store to flag down a cab, I felt someone staring at me.

I turned slowly.

Meredith Watson looked back, seated stiffly on a wooden bench. Her arms were folded. A fuzzy red scarf was tied loosely around her neck, and her caramel hair was pulled back into a low ponytail.

She wasn't smiling.

When she noticed me staring right back, Meredith held out a hand gestured for me to come over. It was a demand, not a request.

I don't do demands.

But she probably knew something about the case.

Lockwood and George were climbing into the cab. George was clambering in one limb at a time, and Lockwood was folding his own lanky limbs like a crane, settling into the passenger's seat. They chattered away, about the rapiers and prices and good bargaining.

I took a step back and slammed the door shut behind George.

Lockwood's window rolled down. "What are you doing?"

"There's . . . something I need to do, Lockwood."

He followed my gaze to Meredith, who had her head turned to the side and was studying a small flock of birds pecking at seed. She threw another handful down, and the smallest bird rose up, hopping onto her index finger to get at the bag in her lap. Meredith's eyes softened; she settled it onto her knee and the bird eagerly swallowed seed after seed, his feathery brown wings shifting.

I bundled my coat firmly around myself. "I'll meet you back at the house later."

"No."

"How long do the—I'm sorry, what?" It wasn't that I hadn't heard. It was that I hadn't wanted to hear what I had heard. "Did you just say  _no?"_

Lockwood turned to the cab driver and said something quietly; the driver nodded and turned the key in its slot.

The car rumbled to a halt. Lockwood got out of the car, and his brown eyes were melting. The firmness was getting soft around the edges, like chocolate in the sun.

"Just come home, Lucy. The case with that boy . . ."

"Matthew."

" . . . It's over."

Meredith was still casting the birdseed, pointedly not looking our way.

"I have to talk to her," I said quietly. Lockwood paused. His eyes were healing now. Getting harder.

"No, you don't."

George got out of the cab and stood beside Lockwood, looking pained. "Stop being a bloody brat and just come home."

"Bloody  _brat?"_ My voice rose, along with my temper. "George, you have no idea."

"Now you've done it," Lockwood said under his breath, glowering at George.

"She needs to hear it." George put his hands on his hips and sneered at me. "All you've done for a week is complain, complain, complain! Mooching around the house, head in the clouds, in your own little daydream! Just snap out of it! I'm sorry that the case traumatized you so much—"

"I'm not traumatized."

"—But the thing is, you just have to deal with it and move on. Lockwood moved on after he was ghost-touched. I moved on after that incident with the flying jars. So why can't  _you?_ Is your strong sensitivity to the paranormal such a  _liability?_ Huh?"

"You don't know what I'm going through!"

George blanched for a second. "Er . . . is it . . . you know . . . girly things?" he asked uncomfortably. "Because, then sorry if Lockwood and I can't be there on  _that_ topic for you—"

" _Heck,_ NO!" I exploded. "Not that! It's just . . ."

The  _nuisance._ The  _idiot._ He knew nothing. Nothing.

I told him so.

"I know for sure that you two are making a scene." Lockwood grabbed us by the arms; both of us tore vehemently out of his grasp. "George! Lucy!"

"Admit it, Lucy. There's a problem. That case affected you. So why don't you just come home and tell us  _what's wrong with you!_ We're here, and we can help! Just let us. Stop being so  _fussy!"_ He glared. "Were we wrong to take you on the team?"

Lockwood stiffened. "George, you don't take it there."

I snapped.

"You don't know  _anything_ about me, George, because you're an insensitive boy who cares about nothing other than FOOD! I haven't seen you do anything that benefits the agency. You're practically useless. Yes, you are, George— _useless!_ It wouldn't make a difference if you were gone! Lockwood and I would be able to manage JUST FINE! So just GET OUT OF OUR LIVES! You and your insults, your scathing comments, you never say anything nice. I've disliked you ever since we first met! You're as charming as a toe-rag, George. I  _can't_  stand you anymore."

I was furious out of my mind, bellowing the most hurtful things at him that came to mind. Tears were rising to my eyes; emotions swirled underneath, barely hidden. All the times George had interrupted Lockwood and I, blundering in and ruining the moment . . . the way Matthew Callahan's death would remain a mystery, unless I did something . . . George's usual obnoxiousness . . . the way he thought he knew everything . . . a lump was in my throat that wouldn't go away.

George looked like he had been slapped. Then he turned and brushed past Lockwood to step into the cab, slamming the door behind him.

Lockwood looked oddly strained. He ran his hands through his hair. He looked very tired. I was too angry to care.

"You both hurt each other. I'll talk to George, but . . . this isn't all entirely his fault." He lowered his hands. The tone of his voice was still strange. "He was right, you know. You've been acting oddly, mooching around a bit. You should have talked with us. Not bickered with George.  _Again._

"You can go talk to Meredith if you want. Be careful." He slid into the cab and closed the door. A moment later, it eased out onto the street and disappeared.

It hit me, later, what that strange tone in Lockwood's voice had been.

Disappointment.

The realization weighed in me like a stone.

I stood on the pavement; hands jammed in pockets, watching the bright yellow cab wriggle its way through London traffic before disappearing down a side street.

I had taken things a little too far.

If I ever were to make things plain to George, I had planned to do it meticulously. Cleverly. In a way that would make his jaw drop and his mind explode from my astounding wit.

Not like this. Not like how I had done.

 _Especially_ not with Lockwood there.

Dammit.

I hadn't really meant the part about George leaving. Sure, George Cubbins could be a pain in the backside sometimes—always—but . . . it wasn't enough to make me want him gone forever.

I watched cars cruise by with a sense of absence. The two of them would never forgive me, would they? After what I'd said, I couldn't blame them. But then what would happen? Maybe . . . maybe I had to start searching for other job options. I'd pack up my things in a little duffel, say good-bye to my room . . . maybe to the boys if they cared enough to send me off . . . scrape the beautiful emblazoned Lockwood & Co symbol from my rapier—

I pressed my eyelids together forcefully and stopped the beginnings of a warm tear.

Overreacting. Calm down. They wouldn't send me packing. We were friends, no matter what. I was sorry for how I had been acting the whole week, but I'd been trying out theories in my mind, trying to solve Matthew's case, and I'd been too busy with the past to truly appreciate Lockwood and George. Just last night, George had made a superb cake, vanilla with caramel frosting, and he'd called it the 'Carl-amel'. I hadn't had a bite.

A gentle hand on my arm startled me. "Lucy?"

Meredith Watson. I'd forgotten about her, and right now I could care less about her. I didn't turn around.

"It's cold out here. I saw your friends . . . how should I put this . . . leave? Are you all right?"

All right? With Matthew pressing in on my mind, George and Lockwood as well, and the case pursuing the boy's death soon to be dropped, I felt wrung out. Stretched. Strained. So  _no,_ Meredith Watson, I'm  _far_ from all right.

"Lucy Carlily?" Her clarinet of a voice asked again.

" _Carlyle."_ Chin up now, don't go boo-hooing on a stranger. I straightened my shoulders before turning around. "And I'm fine."

"You don't look fine." Meredith Watson looked back at me in concern as her wooly red scarf whipped back and forth in the wind.

I heaved a sigh and decided to trust this woman for a moment, if only to expect a truthful answer for a question. "My face is all scarlet and blotchy, isn't it?"

"Well . . . yes."

"Figures." I scrubbed away at my face, cursing under my breath.

"Look, that's just going to make it worse." Meredith shivered. "Why won't you come over to my place and we'll make soup or something?"

I lowered my hands. The prospect of a warm haven and soup was calling to me, and I was still feeling in a tearful state. Plus, Meredith's eyes were a protective gray, an understanding gray. I could talk at her all I wanted, and  _did_ I need someone to talk to.

Reason before needs, however. Sometimes I really hate my conscience.

Meredith's eyes found my suspicious ones. She smiled brightly. "Tomato soup and a conversation. How does that sound?"

And that's how I ended up following Meredith Watson home.

                                                            * * * * *

"Is it warm enough? Do you like it?" Meredith hovered around me like a mother bird, the pot of soup still in her hand. A bit sloshed out onto the table and she took a moment to dab ferociously at the drops. It only ended up smeared into the pale wood, and she gave up before returning to the kitchen. "So? Lucy?"

"It's fine. Thank you." I sat stiffly in my chair, now doubting my decision. What had I been thinking to come home with a total stranger? Lockwood was always reprimanding me for my impulsiveness; I slumped down and glowered at the table. It stung a bit to know that he was right.

We were in Meredith's dining room, seated around a small circular table with a bowl of fruit and a jug of cider in the center. The lights above buzzed droningly. An open window off to the side let in both the light and waves of cold.

My hands were still freezing as they cradled the bowl; I cupped them around the edge, soaking in the heat, and watched Meredith Watson sit primly across from me. Another spoonful of soup later and we were staring at each other over our bowls, steam wafting into our faces.

"You looked deathly cold out there." Meredith smiled awkwardly. "The wind?"

"Yeah."

"More soup?"

"No thanks."

An awkward pause.

"So . . ." She leaned forward and cupped her chin in her hand. "How are you liking your job, Lucy . . . Carlynn?"

"Er . . . it's Carlyle," I said immediately, trying to keep from gritting my teeth. "And I love it, I guess."

"You guess."

"It can be a pain sometimes, even literally, but . . ." I sighed. "The agency is my life."

"The  _agency._  And the two boys you were bickering with outside are in it with you?" She patted her lips with a soft napkin.

I gripped my spoon harder and stared into my soup. "Yes. Yes, they are."

"Now, forgive me if I am a bit forward, but . . . what were you fighting about?" Her gray eyes examined me with quizzical interest; something glinted within, and I shivered momentarily.

"We . . ." How was I supposed to explain that we were arguing over  _her?_ "It was case business."

" _Case_ business." She raised her eyebrows. I shrugged. "And . . . how is the case going with my cousin's son? You saw his ghost back at her house. I read it in the paper."

Another shrug, this time a bit more stiffly.

"And Lockwood and Co. had Carla put under suspicion for his death, am I right?" Meredith leaned over her soup, gray eyes hard.

I swallowed.

" _Am I right?"_

No going back now. "Yes," I said, equally as waspishly, "but we had our reasons." I pushed back from the table, the legs of the chair screeching over the glossy kitchen floor. "Thank you for having me. I'll be going n—"

"Listen." Meredith took my hands in hers. They were hot and clammy from making soup, calloused and worn as well. "It wasn't my cousin, Lucy. She would never. Understand? Never. The two of them were the sweetest pair you could imagine."

I said nothing.

"There." Meredith Watson let me go and crossed her arms. We surveyed each other. Then she broke out into a strained sort of smile. "Now, aside from these uncomfortable topics"—we both chuckled awkwardly—"How is life in general?"

What kind of question was that?

"Life is all right. Could be better."

"Anything . . . romantic?"

I goggled at her.

"Romantic?"

"You know . . . boys. You're old enough," Meredith said thoughtfully. "I've always been an old maid."

"Boys—no!" I was probably flushing bright red. "I . . . no." A brief vision of Lockwood flashed through my mind, delicately picking a leaf out of my hair, his face bent close to my shoulder; I bent close to my soup and purposefully slurped at it loudly.

"You're blushing. Come on, tell."

"I won't." I didn't even bother to deny it this time, which surprised even me. Could it be . . .? No. Not Lockwood. Someone else, not a colleague, not  _him—_

"What about that tall, skinny boy in your agency? What was his name again?" Meredith teased. "Anthony Lockwood? The  _fearless leader_ types, then; do you like  _them?_ "

"I-gosh,  _no . . ._ I mean . . . er . . ."

And so the morning passed this way. I didn't bother mentioning the excellent change in conversation.

Once the clock had crawled towards late noon, we were sitting on the couch beside the open window, sunshine crawling along the carpet.

"Tell me, what is it like, your agency?"

"My agency? The people in it, you mean?"

"Yes."

I paused. Thought. What  _were_ they like?

"Lockwood is the leader. George is the cranky researcher. And I'm . . . me."

It was pitiful, but it felt wrong to try to describe it to her. She just didn't know. Didn't know how it felt to trust your back to these people as you entered a haunted building. Didn't know how we had sat around various kitchen tables over the years, chatting as lantern light flickered. Didn't know how we each mentally counted down the days together, waiting anxiously, with dread in our hearts, for the day that our Talents would leave us and Lockwood & Co. would be no more. It was something different. It was a bond.

A bond. It couldn't be easily broken. And if it were, it could be healed.

I stood up abruptly. "I'm sorry, but I've got to go. There're . . . things I've need to do."

Meredith didn't blink an eye. She showed me to the door. "Good bye, Lucy Carleen."

I didn't bother correcting her this time.

Once outside, standing forlornly on the curb, I somehow managed to hail a cab. A grizzled man turned around in the driver's seat. "Where to, missy?"

"35 Portland Row, please." I turned my head to look out the window. "Home."

                                    * * * * * *

It's a very hard thing to do, sometimes. Pressing a doorbell.

I stared hard at the small round button and then stretched my hand out for the third time. Hesitated.

Oh, for  _God's_  sake.

I plunged my hand down and jammed that darned button right on the center. Hard. And then pressed it several times again just for good luck, my heart beating awfully fast as someone shuffled to the front door.

"Stop. You're going to break the thing."

I waited in trepidation as the locks were fiddled with, chains and bolts and iron safeguards pulled away before the doorknob finally began to turn. I swallowed thickly.

The door swung open and George stood there in all of his sloppy glory. Slippers were on his feet and there was a beanie on his head (a very hard thing to do, to imagine George in a beanie. But he does it. He wears it. And I'm left with my mind reeling and doubting the world for days afterward).

We stared at each other. Then:

"Oh. It's you," George said dispassionately.

"It's me." My mouth was a tad bit dry, and I swallowed again. It didn't help.

"Come slinking and sulking back?" George's eyes were narrowed. "I'll have you know that my bags  _aren't_ packed, however disappointed you may be."

"George, I'm—"

"—What? Angry? Wanted to scare me off, didn't you? So you could have Lockwood all to yourself." He sneered, eyes blinking quickly behind his glasses. His bulk took up the entire doorway, standing in front of it so I couldn't pass through. One hand leaned against the doorframe in a casual manner, though this conversation was anything but.

"What I'd said . . . I didn't mean it." I stood there on the stoop with my hands tucked into my pockets. Then I reconsidered; that darn pride of mine will be the end of me someday, but I just couldn't help myself. "But you really  _aren't_ the most charming fellow in London."

The door began closing pointedly.

"The toe-rag comparison was a bit extreme, though," I said hastily.

George sniffed, but the door halted its slow swing. "What did you say? Because I didn't hear anything."

All right, enough with the pride. If I had to get down on my knees and kiss George's foul boots in order to be let inside, I'd do it. Reluctantly. But I'd do it.

"I don't want you gone! I didn't mean it!"

"And the moon is made of cheese."

I swallowed again, pressing my fingers against each other tensely. "I don't want to argue, George. I'm sick of that."

"Too right."

"We get on each other's nerves, sure, but what I said . . . I  _really_ didn't mean it. I was just too angry to be thinking straight."

"Have I or have I not always been telling you to work on your anger management?" The plump boy rolled his eyes and opened the door wider now; I caught sight of Lockwood standing behind him, his slim frame pausing in the hallway before slipping into another room.

George still didn't let me in. I grappled for something to say. I'd hurt his feelings—snotty, plump George, with his retorts and apple cores, stung by my comments. And I . . .

"I'm really sorry, George," I said quietly.

"Apology accepted." George stood aside at last and let me through, taking off his glasses to rub at them with a dingy cloth.

I stepped inside with a mixture of relief and hesitation. Everything was unchanged in the hall. The artifacts were still where they should be, some of them hung on the wall and others stacked in the living room. I stepped carefully over the glued-together shards of a fertility gourd.

"Lucy?"

George again. I turned round. Had he had a sudden change of heart and decided to kick me back out?

"I'm sorry, too." He looked awkwardly at me, shoving his glasses back onto his nose and tucking the cloth into his pocket. "Shouldn't have said some things back there. Uncalled for."

I gaped at him. "Er . . . thanks for the apology," I stammered. Then I quickly made off down the hall again, taking the flights up and up to my room.

                                                * * * * *

Lockwood came out of the living room and stood in the hallway with George, his expression unreadable. "She's here?"

"You saw her yourself." George jerked his head at the kitchen. "Help me with dinner," he demanded. "All you've been doing all day is slouch around in a black mood. Food doesn't just cook itself."

"So have you."

"What? I've been cooking myself?"

"No. Been in a black mood." Lockwood's eyes trailed up the stairs towards the attic. George tried to hide another smirk.

"Well,  _I've_ recovered.  _I've_ received an apology."

"I heard you give one as well," Lockwood said.

George shrugged and headed into the kitchen. He grabbed a pan out of a cupboard and set it on the stove. He drizzled some oil inside, then grabbed a few frozen fish sticks out of the freezer and tossed them on. They hissed and crackled, and George flipped them expertly before they could burn. Good cooking made good food, and good food was everything.

Besides, he was the only person in this house who could make pancakes without burning the whole lot into a charred, inedible mess. Goes to show the lack of skill in his colleagues. The only things they could do right was swing a rapier. And then there was their total bull-headedness, of course. Lockwood and Lucy excelled in that.

The sound of feet treading on soft wood came to their ears, and a moment later Lucy arrived in the kitchen.

                                                * * * * *

"Fish sticks?" Lockwood asked lightly, not missing a beat. He was as impeccable as ever, dressed in a dashing coat down to his knees with a crisp white shirt underneath. One hand held a plate out to me.

I looked blankly back at him. "Eh?"

The plate was shaken pointedly at me, so I took it.

George was standing in front of the stove, a pan in front of him, intently frying some sizzling object. Lockwood dolled out the silverware onto the dining table while I stood there awkwardly, a plate in my hand.

It was like the argument had never happened. I would be lying if I said I wasn't relieved.

"Fish sticks, Luce," Lockwood repeated. He plopped down into a chair and leaned back, propping his feet up on the table. "George's dish for tonight. Right, George?"

"Right. And don't you scratch the wood," George warned, pointing a spatula threateningly in Lockwood's direction; or, more precisely, at Lockwood's feet. "That table's been newly varnished."

"Just look at that shine," Lockwood agreed in admiration. He smiled at me, his one hundred watt smile, and then jerked his head at the seat beside him.

I put my plate down and sat, smoothing out the fabric of my skirt. We smiled at each other, comfortably. Everything felt fine again.

George came around, dumping a plate full of fried fish sticks in front of us. Then he sat next to Lockwood in his usual place.

We stared at each other.

"Well, take a fish stick, Luce," Lockwood said immediately, cutting business-like through the silence. He dumped one on my plate. "Actually, take two . . . you need some feeding up. And two for myself, of course . . . and one for you, George. Are we all good? Where's the juice? I remember buying juice yesterday."

George stabbed at his fish stick. "As the cook, I rightfully demand another."

"You don't need any more 'feeding up,' George."

"Hey!"

And so the meal progressed.

" . . . And she was the battiest client I've ever had, I swear," Lockwood was saying through our peals of laughter. It was sometime later in the evening, when night was falling outside. George and I were at the table, and Lockwood was finally washing the dishes at the sink. The watch-lights began flickering on outside; Lockwood drew the blinds down, stacked the last plate on the rack.

"A  _hundred_ cats, Lockwood?" I leaned against the table in disbelief.

"Yes, and during the night when the Type One would appear in the basement, they'd all come running and yowling into her room like an insane horde. I came over once and saw it myself. It was a  _sea_ of terrified cats."

"How'd she feed them all?" George asked doubtfully.

"Who cares, George?" I wrinkled my nose. "One cat is enough."

"Amen to that," Lockwood agreed cheerily. More laughter.

And thus we finished our cocoa and said good night.

                                                * * * * *

I was on my way up to my bedroom when I saw a bulky form moving around in the bathroom. I halted on the landing and looked in.

George was washing his hands at the sink, the ghost jar on the table beside him. It made a sickly face at me; I ignored it. "Hey, George."

He continued washing his hands. "Privacy, Lucy? It might be something you've never heard of—"

"Oh, please. You're just washing your hands."

"Could've been getting into the shower."

"With the door  _open?_ I think not."

George dried his hands and scooted past me. "Well, if you're going to tinkle then be careful. I think I left a drop on the toilet seat."

"A drop? What—oh, that's disgusting, George." I followed him out. He swiveled on his heel and faced me, one hand on the doorway into his bedroom. I looked over his shoulder and saw stacks of dirty laundry atop his desk, an apple core on his bedspread, and underwear lying boldly over his lamp. "So's your room, by the way. Do you  _ever_ clean?"

"What do you want?" George asked, rolling his eyes.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry," I blurted.

"You already have."

"Well . . . yes . . . but—"

"Look, Lucy, it's all right." For a moment he looked a lot like Lockwood, a sparkle of humor in his eye, his back straight. Then the moment faded and George was . . . George. Slouching, belching George, who was now scratching his stomach and looking at me with eyes squinting behind his glasses. "What's this for? You're not usually like this." A pause, and then his eyes squinted harder. " _He's_ on your mind again."

Stupid, perceptive,  _all-knowing_ George. I grimaced. "Yeah."

"Stop thinking about Matthew Callahan. He's going to drive you insane—if you're not already."

"Wow, thanks. That really helped," I said sarcastically. "I guess I thought . . . that if I wrapped up this squabble of ours . . . then  _he'd_ be off my mind, too? I don't know. I just—you have that  _condescending_  look on your face again! Whatever, George. G'night." I turned to go and progressed back down the narrow, carpeted hall, trying my best to force thoughts of a certain blond-haired child from my mind. As my foot touched the first step of the stairs, a voice called suddenly from behind me.

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow what?" I craned my neck around to catch George standing back in his doorway again, rubbing once more at those greasy glasses of his. "George?"

"Tomorrow we'll go to the library," George said firmly, "and dig up some dirt on Matthew's death. And watch your feeble step on the way upstairs—I think I left some books on the staircase. You might trip and break your neck, and God knows what Lockwood would do to me."


	4. the inspector

The next morning, Lockwood, George, and I boarded the Jubilee Line train to Green Park. It was around a five-minute ride. We stood amongst sleeping grandmothers, bickering couples, and stony-faced politicians riding to work. A group of Rotwell agents entered the cramped train as we got off. There was a bit of tension as George tripped over one of their feet, sending briefcases and rapiers scattering; after a scramble to pick them all up, we brushed past each other without saying a word.

We pressed on down the street, silent and serious, and the bustling Saturday crowd parted slightly to let us through. Around the block we went, trading the crowds and the noise for a leafy green square draped with trees and wooden benches. A giant brick building was mounted on one side, rather ugly in a gargantuan way. It was the National Newspaper Archives. We'd come here before on a few other cases.

Lockwood led the way through the revolving doors, George and I trooping after him. However, as he stopped, turning round and round on the marble floor to look at the stacks of books and files around him, George gave an exasperated sigh.

"So out of place in a complex for education. Typical."

Lockwood merely shrugged.

George rushed us along in a businesslike matter and soon we were at the second floor. He plunked down beige-colored files in front of us. "I called the Archives beforehand and they found some articles for us."

"Good, because we have a deadline," I muttered into a file, my nose nearly touching the faded print as I squinted at the newspaper. "These are from 2003? The time of Matthew's mur—death?"

"2003 and a few earlier on. Plus the article detailing Carla Callahan's short arrest." George disappeared back into the rows of bookshelves.

"Short arrest? When is Callahan's name being dropped as a suspect?" Lockwood asked me curiously.

"You think I know?" I flipped through the file. It consisted mostly of tea parties and eulogies than actual evidence that I could work with. My eyes flicked up again to catch Lockwood staring at me. "Okay. Fine. I  _do_ know. Two days and she's walking free. But I'm not as totally obsessed as you think I am, all right?"

He raised an eyebrow disbelievingly.

Fortunately, before a jumble of files flew and smacked a certain boy hard on his eyebrow-raised face, George bumbled back and sat down in a chair beside me. In his hands were a few more stacks of files. All in all, we had around six to look through, with at least ten newspapers in each. I tried hard not to bang my head on the table with dread.

A slow half-hour passed. I propped my chin up on my palm and tried vaguely to remember why I had been so excited to come here in the first place. Hadn't all the other visits been just the same?

I listened to the quiet hum of the library for a while, and the rustle of pages as Lockwood and George pored obediently through the files. It was warm in the National Newspaper Archives, and the low buzz of sound made me feel droopy. My eyes began to slide shut.

"Here, Luce, take this." A file whapped me on the elbow, and I jerked upward to see that Lockwood had flipped a January edition of the  _Richmond Examiner_  in my direction. I sat up straight and looked over the first page before flipping to the next. The silence resumed until I could take it no longer.

"Why is this always so  _boring?_ " I complained, spreading my hands out wide to emphasize my frustration. George peered out at me from the top of a book on prescription pills, his neck craned out like a tortoise's. A very tubby, very grubby tortoise with rimmed glasses.

"I'm not even finding anything useful," I added. "What about you two?"

"Did you know that prescription pills are often taken in large amounts to aid in suicide?" George asked.

"Yeah, I did, George. But I really don't think that a six-year-old committed suicide."

"You never know," George said darkly.

Lockwood was looking blandly at the clock across the room. "The Archives closes in a few hours. We have plenty of time to dig up some interesting material." He didn't look particularly hopeful, however, as he returned to reading a yellowed newspaper.

"You think you aren't finding anything, Lucy?" George asked me suddenly, pointing at the page before me. "Take a look at that. The headline . . ."

I ducked my head down and scanned the page. It was the third page of the  _Richmond Examiner,_ two years ago. In 2003. Lockwood and George crowded around me, and we read it through together.

**CARLA CALLAHAN: MOTHER DEALING WITH GRIEF**

**_Richmond Examiner_ ** **had an interview with the grieving mother, Carla Callahan, only yesterday. Callahan, at age 45, has suffered through a terrible loss. Only last week her child, six-year-old Matthew Callahan, had tottered over to a side drawer and swallowed a whole bottle of pills that had been set upon it.**

**First a widow after her husband, Frederick Callahan, passed away from cancer a few months before, and now childless as well. We asked Callahan about her family's relationship with her son.**

" **Our relationship? Well . . . we all loved Matthew," Callahan says. "My husband, my cousin—and especially Freddie's mother. She loved having a grandson. She had been a bit lonely ever since her divorce, you know, with Thomas Hills. Freddie's dad. _He_  passed away a year after her, and we never saw him much."**

**Matthew Callahan's grandmother, Lois Hanna Delaney, was a millionaire—**

I stopped reading abruptly, and whipped up in my chair. Heads cracked together, and Lockwood, George, and I were sent reeling, as our conked heads seemed to split from pain.

"Ow—more warning next time, Luce," Lockwood gasped, rubbing at his forehead. A large bruise was purpling there, and he winced as he touched it. George was in a similar state.

I was already brushing off my wounds and holding up the newspaper in a fervor of excitement. "Look!"

"We saw," George groaned, easing into a chair.

"No— _look."_ I grabbed a pen from the jar and circled the name at the bottom. "You see?"

"Lois Hanna Delaney," Lockwood read slowly. "The name—"

"It seems familiar, right?" I nodded. "And then here." I circled another name. "Thomas Hills. Don't these names . . . sound familiar?"

"Well, Carla's husband,  _Freddie"—_ George allowed himself a snicker as he spoke—"must've taken his wife's last name. Callahan."

"Well, yeah. But I wasn't talking about the taking of last names. I thought I'd heard their names somewhere. Lois Hanna Delaney . . . Thomas Hills . . ."

"The letter," Lockwood said suddenly. "Remember? In that case with the old woman Visitor, and the box with all the pounds in the wall. The money that we donated to charity. It was from her, Lois Hanna Delaney. She wanted to keep her money away from her ex-husband,  _Thomas Hills._  All of those pounds must've been a smidgen of what she had."

We gaped at each other.

"Come on," I said, grabbing my coat. "We've got to go."

"Where?" George asked, still staring at the newspaper with his mouth half open.

"Carla Callahan's mother-in-law is—was—a  _millionaire?_ Don't you think that it might have had something to do with Matthew's death?"

"Maybe," George said doubtfully. "But there's really nowhere we can go with this information."

"Money—it has something to do with money." I slid my coat on.

"So where are you going?" Lockwood asked me, putting on his coat as well and buckling his rapier back on. George sighed and then did the same.

"Meredith's house. I've been there before—yes, I actually went to her house, Lockwood, don't stare at me like that—and I know her address. I'm going to ask her about her cousin's relationship with her mother-in-law, and then get Carla Callahan arres—"

"Arrested? Not so fast, girl."

My speech withered away fast.

Lockwood and George were both looking suspiciously at somebody standing behind me. I paused in the middle of buttoning up my jacket and then turned slowly on my heel.

A tall, wiry man was leaning against the rails that lined the second floor, smiling blandly at the three of us. His chin was rough and unshaven, and his hair was gray and curly. A badge glimmered on his breast; Scotland Yard Inspector, it read. "Are you Lockwood & Co?"

"We certainly aren't from Fittes," Lockwood answered dryly.

"I'm Inspector James Desko. Scotland Yard would like a certain Lucy Carlyle to come in." He flashed his badge at us pointedly. "I figured I might find you here."

The three of us stood firm. Lockwood had a hand on my shoulder, and George had his arms folded. I simply stared hard at the man, my eyebrows surely lowered, hands still frozen over my coat buttons.

"Why me?" I asked at last, clearing my throat and lowering my hands.

"Callahan will be dropped from suspicion in two days, so we're finding all the material we can." Desko leveled his gaze with mine. "That includes all evidence of the paranormal. Lucy Carlyle, we need your Talent."

"What do you need me to do?" I tried to ignore the way Lockwood's eyes were burning into the back of my head.

The inspector hesitated and then smiled wanly. "Your Touch. It'll be easy. Just simply hold the boy's teddy bear, tell us what you see, we'll take notes and—"

" _Easy?"_ I cried. Lockwood's gripped my shoulder harder. "Touching that thing was horrible. The boy was  _murdered,_ inspector. You don't have any idea what Touching an item filled with emotions like that is  _like."_

"No, I don't." Desko agreed. "But you do."

There was a foul silence that pervaded the air. A humming librarian rounded the corner, saw our stance and the confrontational way we glared at each other, and scurried in the opposite direction.

Lockwood was the first to shatter the standoff.

"Enough is enough." His mouth was in a thin hard line as he jerked his head at George, who began sweeping up all the files. "She said no, and that's that. Good day, Mr. Desko."

"I didn't say no."

George paused. Lockwood said nothing. Desko raised an eyebrow.

"Do you need me?" I took a step forward, trying hard not to think about what I was doing (which was ashamedly easy), leaving Lockwood behind me as I looked Desko in the eye. "For this case. Do you need  _me_?"

"We do."

"All righty then." I took a deep breath. "As long as it's quick."

"This is your decision, Luce?" Lockwood asked me quietly. I turned away from Desko and nodded, trying to ignore the way that my throat was clogged in the apprehension of touching that  _thing_ again.

"I want this, Lockwood."

"We'll be there if you need us, Luce, and—"

"Only Carlyle," the inspector cut in. Lockwood's breath hissed through his teeth.

"It's all right, Lockwood." I straightened my shoulders, and finished buttoning up my coat, trying to keep my breathing even and steady. "I'll see you back home."

He was frowning, and behind him George was as still as stone. "You'll be alright?"

"I'm  _me._ I escape everything unscathed," I said jokingly. Desko tapped his foot impatiently.

"This isn't a death sentence, surely you all understand th—"

"Oh, shut up, Disco." George had his hands on his hips. "Lasagna tonight, Lucy. Be back in time."

"It's not like it'll take that long." I smiled as brightly as I could at the pair of them, and then followed the inspector out.

Please, don't let it be as bad as last time.

                                    * * * * * *

The wind had let up a little, leaving the day lovely and bright. Above, the sky was a cerulean blue. Birds twittered and chased after gusting clouds, their sleek wings cutting through the air.

She watched the birds for a while, paused on the center of the path, still clutching a bundle of groceries. Then, red woolly scarf tucked firmly around her neck, she continued on, striding purposefully towards a playground at the end of the park.

Her cousin had gone against her advice and agreed to the questioning by that stupid inspector. Perhaps she thought that if she acted agreeable enough, heartbroken enough, then everything would let up and life would continue as normal.

Meredith Watson smiled faintly.

Oh, she loved Carla, all right. She loved her cousin so much that it scared her. It was a quiet, burning sort of love, the powerful kind reserved for people of shared blood. Yes, Meredith would do anything for her cousin.

And when Carla had married that  _idiot_ of a man, that miserable excuse of a human, that Frederick Hills, Meredith had said nothing. Just gone to the wedding, applauded a bit, and chatted with the man's mother, a flighty woman whose IQ levels were probably below that of a chimpanzee's. Carla had deserved better.

She perched on the edge of a wooden bench. That miserable, hurried batch of tomato soup from yesterday was making her stomach ache (perhaps the thing had expired? She always forgot to check) and so she slapped a pill on her tongue and swallowed it down with a large gulp of ice water.

The children on the playground were squealing and running and romping in the splashing fountain nearby. One of them was holding a cherry-pink worm by its end and letting it crawl helplessly over a sloppily made "mud pie."

It had been easy enough, getting to know her nephew. But first she'd had to deal with the news that she was going to be  _getting_ one.

" _P-pregnant?"_

" _I am!" Carla smiled at her happily. "I just found out two days ago. Isn't it exciting?"_

" _I guess so." She was feeling rather shocked; was it the lack of air? Today had been rather hot. Perhaps that was it. Meredith fanned at her neck, blinking rapidly. "You're pregnant."_

" _This is the part where you congratulate me?" Carla's smile was fading, and she looked rather pouty. Meredith hated that look. She leaned forward hastily and grabbed her cousin's hands._

" _Oh, cousin, it's surprising. But I can't say that it's good news," she added darkly, delighting in the fearful expression that stole over her cousin's plain features._

" _Why not? Frederick and I have been trying for a while." The drone of the café nearly blocked out her cousin's quiet reply. Meredith wished all the other occupants away, so they could talk in peace. Not for the first time, she wondered what would happen if she swept a gun out of her coat and just let loose. How would she feel? How would people react? Certainly things would be quiet enough for them to chat_ then.

_People sometimes accused Meredith of being insensitive. But that wasn't it. She was just cold-hearted. Uncaring. Besides for her cousin, there wasn't a person in the world that she had her heart on a plate for. Her parents had tried to drag her off to a specialist, biting at their nails for their icy only child. But Meredith had stuck her heels in the dirt, refused, and screamed at them that she was fine. And damn them for thinking otherwise._

_She'd mastered the talent of changing her expression and stance to match the occasion. If she was trying to win someone over, then soften the eyes and let the grayness mellow. Smile kindly. More often than not, people couldn't get past that to the chilly person inside of her. It was well hidden these days. Not even Carla thought much about it._

" _It'll be hard for you and Frederick. Struggling to get by, and with a baby on the way?" Meredith clucked her tongue sadly. "And have you seen how tired Frederick has been lately? He seems a bit . . . different."_

" _You think something is wrong with him?" Carla's hands gripped fiercely at Meredith's soft palm. "What?"_

" _You know what? He's probably fine." Meredith patted her cousin's hand. "So, a baby? What gender?"_

" _Male."_

_There was another hungry mouth on its way, and a male one at that? Boys were always so hard to feed; they were like bottomless pits more often than not. Meredith tried hard not to grimace. "Have you picked a name?"_

" _Well . . . I was thinking maybe Billy." Carla beamed at her cousin, who spluttered on her water. "Meredith?"_

" _Billy? No. Something more dignified," Meredith insisted. If she was going to have a nephew, she was going to make him as perfect as she could. And "Billy" didn't fit into that category. "Maybe something like Samuel? Matthew? What about Matthew?"_

" _I like Matthew. Could call him 'Mattie' for short. Mattie, Mattie, pick up your toys," Carla tried, and then giggled foolishly behind her hand. "Oh, thanks so much, Meredith. You've been a big help."_

" _I've hardly done anything," Meredith replied, feeling that shield around her heart ease a little bit._

" _Still." Carla wrapped her in a hug and then glided out of the café, blond hair curling around the side of her neck to drape down her shoulder. Meredith watched her go, one hand still coiled around her coffee; then she took a last swallow, and mused about her incoming relation as the bitter taste swirled in her mouth._

A ball bounced, rolled, and hit Meredith's feet lightly. She picked it up. It was a shiny red thing, slightly dirtied by the dusty path it had tumbled through.

"That's my ball." A girl appeared at her side, arms outstretched, one eyebrow raised pointedly. She looked around eight or nine.

Meredith tossed it to her and watched lazily as the girl ran back down the path, back to her friends who were waiting impatiently on the field.

The boy had been as annoying as she had expected. Matthew Callahan, a real irritant. If he were anything like his mother, then perhaps she could have liked him a bit. But he was everything like his father; from his looks to the way he asked her how her day was.

" _Auntie!" A boy opened the gate and ran out as Meredith slammed the door of her little red car shut. "How was your day?" he piped, his round face shining._

_Meredith brushed past him. "It was fine."_

" _So it was good?"_

" _Whatever you think it is. Where is your mother?" She stopped beside a strawberry plant and looked at him hard. The boy, who was holding a pair of gardens shears in his hand, stared back._

" _I don't know. The kitchen? After Dad went to take another nap, Mummy started crying again. It was scary." He started forward and tried to press his hand into hers; Meredith shoved him away._

" _Crying? Damn it all," Meredith muttered under her breath, and started up the garden path, ignoring the howls of pain behind her as the boy nicked his pinky on the garden shears._

                                    * * * * * *

"Please. Sit down, Miss Carlyle." James Desko pillowed into his swivel-chair with a content sigh and leaned back.  _God,_  it had been a long day . . . he raised his head and watched the sturdy girl across from him, after a moment's consideration, do as asked. As she settled in, her eyes roamed around the office, at the certificates hanging from the walls and the distinct brown stain (spilled coffee) on the carpeted floor; then Lucy Carlyle looked directly at him.

The inspector clapped his hands together, straightening and setting a cardboard box atop his desk. "So, Miss Carlyle, how are your other cases going? You've been busy I would suppose . . . there've been those outbreaks in the Crescent and King's Road neighborhoods . . . " He carefully undid the string keeping the box shut and opened the top. "I suppose you know what's in here?"

"Yeah. A teddy bear." Lucy had her hands clenched together; her knuckles were white. She had the look of a cornered rat, all glinting eyes and painful dread. Desko cleared his throat, patted the box reassuringly.

"Well, yes. More specifically, it's a Type Two Source, classified as 'highly dangerous' by DEPRAC officials and to be incinerated at Fittes in a couple of days. Of course, they're still chugging their way through all that junk from the latest Kensal Green Cemetery outbreak, so the hold could take longer than that." He smiled self-consciously. "I've been taking notes on the paranormal specifically for this case. Can you tell?"

The girl grunted.

"So. Are you set?"

"Yes."

There was no need for further prompting. Desko plunged his hands into the box and felt them curl around smooth glass. Then he pulled, hefting the glass jar out and onto the desk.

Restrained by an iron cap and glass laced with silver, the bear inside looked out at them unassumingly. Desko, glancing from the bear to the girl, found that she was gazing back at the jar with an expression close to trepidation. "Ready?" he asked gruffly.

Lucy Carlyle tore her eyes away and laid a hand determinedly on top of the jar. "Ready," she said quietly.

"Go ahead."

"Snap me out of it if I get stuck," the girl muttered, eyes fixated on the teddy bear; then she forced the lid open and stuck her hand into the jar in a blinking. The bear was pulled roughly out, its face dragged against the glass. Then Lucy had it in her hands, was staring into its eyes, and her own brown ones were suddenly glazed over. Desko leaned against his chair and watched interestedly, with a pencil poised over a pad of paper.

Time ticked by; a minute passed, maybe another . . . Lucy gave a sudden gasp and tears began streaming down her face, one-by-one. Desko cocked his head.

"Lucy?"

He had never been in a paranormal situation before; by the time the Problem had reached its climax he was already in a steady job, safely in an office out in the country. Ghosts were less common out there, it seemed. So what to do now with this agitated agent, Desko had no idea. He scribbled down a note and bit at the eraser. Should he wake her? Was it dangerous to do it now? So many  _uncertainties._  Desko growled under his breath.

At last, he sent the papers spinning across his desk as he reached across to shake the girl roughly. "Miss Carlyle!"

She shook her head and rocked back and forth, eyes closed. She was making these little shuddering motions now, crying and shaking and rocking. Desko rounded the desk and grabbed her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Stupid question. Of course she wasn't all right.  _Just look at her,_ Desko snapped at himself; then he drew himself up and, without hesitation, slapped Lucy Carlyle hard across the cheek.

Her eyes popped open immediately and Lucy was on her feet in a burst, throwing the bear away from her; Desko reached out a hand and caught it in midair.

"Are you all right?" Again, that question. It never seemed to stay away.

The girl didn't answer, just caught her breath; then she wiped furiously at her eyes. When the girl was upset, it seemed that she drew anger into the equation in order to turn away from the revealing emotion. Like right now.

"Why didn't you bring me back  _sooner_?" Lucy cried, her hands waving in the air. "That must have been . . . what . . . six,  _seven_  minutes?"

"I thought you were handling it," Desko replied awkwardly. Lucy threw a disbelieving look at him, and the inspector had a sudden flashback to when he was six years old and was on the receiving end of a lecture from his teacher after pouring hot glue into the pencil sharpener.

"Put the thing back in its jar, would you?" Carlyle made a little waving motion at the bear; Desko wordlessly put it away and slid the cardboard box under his desk.

"That bad?" he asked.

"Matthew Callahan was  _murdered,_ inspector. It was bad."

"What did you sense?"

"Blurred emotions here and there," Lucy said vaguely, scrubbing at her eyes again. "You know. Panic . . . rollercoaster love . . . then fear and on and on until there was nothing. The same as last time."

"So you still believe it was the mother?"

"That's what I think."

"Is there anything in the bear that would prove it?"

" . . . No."

"Ah." James Desko sat back down at his desk and fiddled with his note-pad. "You see; that was the purpose of this examination. Not much we can do here, then, can we? This was as thoroughly unhelpful and unnecessary as it could ever have been. Good day, Miss Carlyle."

Carlyle didn't move.

Desko stared at her blandly. "You can take my earlier statement as a hint to leave." He made a slight shooing motion towards the door. "Go on. I'm a busy man, and we are done here."

"But  _I'm_  not done, inspector," the girl replied with a grim smile. She prodded his desk with a finger. "I have information you could use."

"Information?" Desko smiled slowly, the kind of smile on a content crocodile. "Do tell."

"Did you know that Carla Callahan is related to the millionaire Lois Hanna Delaney? She passed away a short while before her grandson died. Suspicious." Lucy stood up and faced the doorway. "George will send over the files from the National Newspaper Archives."

"Interesting . . . and so that's what you were doing there. Researching, eh? I just went because I saw that dough-ball boy of yours there all the time. Not very elegant, is he?"

"Don't you call him that," Lucy snapped.

"What? Dough-ball?"

" _Don't."_

"I'm sorry if I've affronted you, but-"

"You know, I really thought you had more class than that." Lucy opened the frosted-glass door and paused, one foot out in the hall. "Good-bye, inspector."

Desko waved an airy hand. "Tell the next visitor to come on in."

The next person was ushered inside, Lucy throwing her a passing glower so hard it could have melted solid rock before stalking out; Desko smiled passively and tweaked his badge so the glare from the window glinted off it. "Do sit down . . . Hello, hello, Miss Callahan . . . ready for your  _interrogation?"_

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The walk back home was long, and the dreary clouds above signaled of oncoming rain. I drew my coat around myself and continued down the path, feeling thoroughly disheartened. What a job that had been. I had gone through that whirlwind of, as amusing as it sounded, teddy-bear horror only to accomplish . . . nothing.

It left a girl wondering if this investigation was as pointless as it seemed at the moment. Maybe I was simply overreacting. Maybe . . . maybe Lockwood had been right, and I just had to let Matthew Callahan go.

But no.

I couldn't do it.

There was  _something_ fishy about it all. I strode quickly through the park, racing through all the suspicions of what  _really_  could have happened that night one six-year-old boy died. Or was murdered. Or—

"Coming through!"

I stepped to the side to avoid an oncoming cyclist, craning my neck to look up at the ominous clouds as they gave a loud rumble; then, without warning, a shower of rain poured down. Icy water trickled over my neck, droplets gathered on my sweater; spurred into action, I dashed through the park, arms held above my head in a futile attempt to ward off the rain. Past a playground, scattering flocks of little brown birds, and across the slick street I went, the rain falling through the air like a million dewy crystals. A few blocks later, drenched from head-to-toe, I attempted to skid to a stop but instead tripped over the sidewalk curb and landed with my nose on the WELCOME mat of 35 Portland Row.

The door was locked firmly shut when I tried the knob, and nobody came to the door when I rang the doorbell. Looks like the boys were out.

Hadn't we always kept a spare key in the herb pot?

I shuffled to the side and knelt down, my wet skirt sticking to my legs, and scrabbled along the side of a wilting basil plant. Moments later I was sticking a dirtied key into the slot and letting myself into the house with much relief.

I shut the door behind me, blocking out the sound of rain pattering softly against the earth, and watched a puddle spread slowly from my soaked shoes and outward. It was when the pool of water nudged the recently glued-together fertility gourd that I roused myself and squelched up the stairs to my room.

Or, at least, that was what I was going to do.

A cold draft of air hit the back of my wet neck and I stopped dead, looking around. Had Lockwood or George carelessly left a window open? Again? (Long story short, we came home to find three raccoons and a family of mice, as well as a fearless goose, nibbling at the contents our pantry. George was furious and beat them all out with a broom while Lockwood and I stood on top of the kitchen table, cheering him on). I followed the wafting air into the living room, already thinking about the chiding I had in store for those two, and stopped dead.

Smashed glass littered the carpeted floor, rasping and tinkling against one another. The broken remnants of a windowpane lay amongst the pieces, and above, on the wall, there was a gaping hole where it should have been.

A break-in.

My hand flew automatically to my right hip, sliding across the hilt of the rapier that was positioned there. Then, heart beating fast, I listened carefully, crossing the room with quiet steps. If the burglar had entered the house while it was empty, they would probably assume it was still—

A loud crash sounded from the basement.

I drew my rapier and stayed perfectly still.

Silence for a moment, and then footsteps came pounding up the staircase. The door in the kitchen squealed on its rusting hinges, and a figure stepped out into the hallway, clothed in all black with a baklava on his—or her—face. A beige-colored envelope was in the burglar's hand, the large kind that we kept—

I felt cold all over.

The burglar stared at my drawn rapier with chilly gray eyes, and I stared at the envelope with ice in my heart.

"You're taking the Callahan file."

The burglar, the  _thief,_ sped across the room, grabbing an ornate Chinese vase and chucking at me with a fearsome suddenness. I dodged; it shattered into pieces against the wall.

A lamp, a textbook, and a heavy picture frame followed; I threw myself past the first two, and the third hit me heavily on the forehead. For a moment, I saw bright dots wheeling across the air, somersaulting and spinning through my field of vision. They rotated, grew larger, and I felt woozy; then I forced myself to my feet, blinking the stars away.

The windowpane was still on the ground, and the curtains blew forlornly against the broken glass.

The thief had long gone.

I sat on the ground for a while, trying to push past a throbbing headache; it felt like there was a hammer pounding at me from inside my skull. That darned picture frame.

At last, when I could move about without wincing, I swept up the shards of glass and threw them into the trash. The picture frame went up on the wall, the lamp on the table, and the textbook in the bookshelf. All the while, I was feeling distinctly unraveled. All the information we had gathered for the case . . . gone. Just like that.

I was furiously patching up the broken window when the front door began rattling. Then it swung open with the sound of heavy rain.

"Welcome home," I said tiredly, as Lockwood and George piled into the living room. "We've had a bit of a break-in."

                                    * * * * * *

The Tesco was strangely quiet; our echoing footsteps were the loudest thing in the store as we entered. We gave the staff at the counter sharp nods and then moved in a coordinated fashion into the food aisle, where a lingering employee gave our dangling rapiers a glance before scuttling quickly away. George stopped almost immediately to look over the cereals; I trailed Lockwood further down, where jam and bread were stocked in formidable piles.

Lockwood began to browse, his hair flopping casually over on eye. Over to the side, George whistled a merry tune. As for myself . . . I just stared at the tiles blankly, arms limp at my sides, and felt that simmering feeling in my stomach begin to boil.

"Luce, which is better, blackberry jam or strawberry?" Lockwood turned and held up two jars for me to see. "There's also orange marmalade, but let's not get that. Tastes horrible."

I snapped my head up, crossed my arms heatedly. "You really want to know what I think?"

Lockwood paused, as if sensing the tension in the air. "Of course," he said slowly. " . . . As long as it's not the marmalade."

I cocked an eyebrow. " _I_ think it's stupid that we're shopping for groceries right after we've been burglarized."

Lockwood didn't say anything; he just picked out a box of muffins here, some cookies there. I followed him like a boiling wraith, arms held out stiffly from my sides and brow knotted together in frustration.

Lockwood added some crackers to his pile. "First of all, there's not much we can do."

"Of course there is!"

"We called the police. They came and found nothing. It didn't help that Barnes and that Desko man came, too, and exploded at us for having a non-authorized file on a suspect."

I had a feeling I knew where this was heading. And I didn't like it, not one bit.

"Now we're in hot water with Scotland Yard  _and_ DEPRAC." Lockwood examined a sheet of buns for a moment; then he turned back to me. "The best thing to do is just keep out of their way. Which means"—I braced myself—"that we're not going to investigate in Matthew Callahan any more. Understood?"

I met his eyes.

"For the sake of our agency, Luce," he said sternly. "They could shut us down. God knows Barnes has been looking for any available excuse."

Something tightened inside. "But  _they're_ not going to find anything in the case! The key to it all is Meredith; she knows something. She trusts me. She'll never own up to Scotland Yard. If I can get her to talk—"

"Promise me."

I held my ground. "George was pretty upset that our file was taken, too. You know how much time he put into that thing?"

Lockwood just stood there, holding his items and staring at me. Waiting.

"I—fine." I threw up my hands. "No more investigating. I won't seek Meredith Watson or Carla Callahan out. Keep to myself, do the cases we have now, I get it."

Lockwood touched my shoulder lightly, almost hesitantly, and I fought back hot tears. His voice came quietly into my ear. "I know how much this means to you. But we just can't do it anymore; Scotland Yard and DEPRAC made it quite clear that the investigation was none of our business. I'm sorry." His hand lingered there on my shoulder for a second, his eyes looking earnestly into mine. Then he walked off without another word.

I stood there in the aisle, arms tight against my sides, and stared up at the buzzing overhead light for a while.

                                    * * * * * *

Dinner that night was subdued. We didn't bother sitting down at the table. Instead, George heated up some Chinese takeout, and we ate straight from the cartons, leaning moodily against the countertop. Lockwood (who wasn't the biggest fan of takeout) silently spread some of his jam on bread. For a while there was just the sound of chewing.

I picked at some rice, spearing one grain after another, and gazed absently at the flashing watch-light outside.

"I  _knew_ we should have kept that file more secure," George burst out suddenly.

I glanced his way.

George shoved away from the counter and eyed our basement door with some distaste; it was still ajar, leaning on rusted hinges, revealing stone steps that led into darkness. He kicked it forcefully shut. "It was open this whole time. Might as well have put up a sign that told the burglar 'Down here! Down here!'" A look of guilt flashed across his face. " _I'm_ the one who left it open. I was in there just this morning, updating that file. I'd found some more information on the Callahans . . ."

Lockwood put his plate in the dishwasher, looking quite weary. "There's no way we could have known, George. If we had, we would have closed the door.  _And_ laid in wait so we could fill that burglar with more holes than our Floating Joe."

"Still, now we're off the case." George looked uncharacteristically mournful. "I'm sorry, Lucy. This is all my fault."

"It's all right, George," I said. "Really, it is."

"I know how important this investigation was to you."

"It still is."

"Now I've ruined it." He stumped toward the sink and did some angry washing-up with the soap and sponge, suds flying everywhere. "I was beginning to think that we were  _so_  close-"

"George. It's okay. I've forgotten to shut that door plenty of times, too."

We looked at each other with smiles that were tinged with sadness.

I was about to resume looking out the window when Lockwood spoke up. "Say, Luce, how did your meeting with Desko go?"

I stabbed viciously at a green bean. "Oh, it was just  _dandy."_

"Er . . . really?"

"No." I took a jab at another bean. "It was just as bad as the first time."

There was another silence. The watch-light flicked off. Darkness wrapped around the house, enclosing us, soaking against the walls.

Something scuttled outside.

I whirled around and gazed through the window; there was nothing but the dark. I looked back into the kitchen. George and Lockwood were frozen on the spot, heads turned in my direction. We all looked at each other.

"Maybe it was nothing," Lockwood offered. Still, his hand was creeping towards the light-switch.

After all, what moved outside during the night but dead men?

 _Dead women,_ a sarcastic little voice whispered inside of me, and I stifled a laugh.

Another moment passed. There were no more sounds. The watch-light flashed back on. We all relaxed, grinning at each other. How jumpy we had been, how childish. It was nothing, and we were just a bit excitable—

Against the window came the faintest, most decisive little  _tap._

We jolted forward, startled. A box of orange chicken slipped from George's hand and fell to the floor. The sauce dribbled out, along with most of the chicken. He hurriedly bent to scoop it back up.

"Just leave it, George." Lockwood's hand was tight around his rapier. "Something's outside. Didn't you hear that tap?"

George and I muttered our assent. Then we all glanced toward the window, tension rising.

Nothing was there.

"Maybe . . . maybe it was the wind," I offered hesitantly. Lockwood snorted.

"The wind,  _tapping?_ No. It—"

Tap. Tap-tap-tap.

I spun around, hand flying to the empty belt around my waist. My eyes darted around the room, flying from one corner to another, before finally landing on the kitchen window again.

A shape was perched outside, smallish and dark as the night surrounding it. Green light flashed from the round orbs of its eyes; my breath hitched in my throat. Then it disappeared.

Lockwood leaped up, and at the given signal (it changed every time, though it was usually a mixture of hasty waves and direct points) George shut off the lights with a swift movement. Meanwhile, I was still trying to find my sword; under the sudden darkness, I tripped, my arms flailed, and I face-planted painfully to the ground.

Lockwood crossed to the window in a few easy strides; he jerked back the dangling curtains and stared out. From my bruised location on the floor, I lifted my head and watched the kitchen slowly melt into a gray blur around us.

"You okay, Luce?" Lockwood finally asked. He turned his head slightly to look at me; one side of his face was cast in shadow, and the other was highlighted in silver, spotlighted by the moon. Because that's the type of person he was, Anthony Lockwood. Even the moon shone brighter for him.

I sat up and shook out my arms and legs, making sure everything was still attached. "Yeah. I'm fine." I touched my face gingerly. "Although I think my nose is squashed."

We paused. Our breathing was quiet. In the momentary silence, the clock seemed to tick louder than usual on the wall. The watch-light turned on outside, flooding the room with bright white light. We all squinted.

Lockwood unbuttoned his coat pocket and pulled out a pair of sunglasses. He slid them on, glanced around the kitchen for a moment, and then crossed the room to me. One hand was extended out; I grabbed it with a sigh, and said half-jokingly: "Can't I sit here for a while longer?"

"Not when we need you," Lockwood quipped. He hauled me up. "Now. Are you hearing anything?"

I had already been listening attentively from my place on the floor. Now I shook my head. "Everything's quiet."

"The temperature is normal, too," George announced. He had his belt-thermometer out and was scanning it across the room; he paused to take a reading at the doorway. "It's all right here, as well . . . and, er . . . Lucy, here's your rapier."

George handed me my rapier. He took another measurement as I attached it to my belt, moving over by the window and holding the thermometer cautiously up to the cold glass.

"It's slightly colder outside," he noted. "But nothing  _Visitor-_ cold." He wiped his glasses on his grungy sweater. "Maybe it's not a ghost."

"Maybe, maybe not, but let's keep on our toes. Just in case. Okay?" Lockwood turned to me, reached down past my shoulder, and grabbed a salt-bomb from an open cupboard. "Is there anything new, Luce?"

I followed his lead and tucked a few salt bombs into a pouch. All the while, I listened absently, tuning in to my inner ears. "Nah," I said. "All's quiet still; there are no sounds. Except for maybe George's stomach."

The boy in mention scrubbed at his glasses again, set them back on his wide nose, and looked unblinkingly out at the night. The dirty glass of the window pressed against his face. Lockwood and I waited in anticipation.

A minute ticked by; I rubbed at a newly formed bruise on my shin.

"George?" Lockwood finally nagged. "Are you seeing anything? Maybe I should take over—my Sight's better than yours."

"Wait!" George's eyes widened; he took a small step back. "There's . . .  _ack!"_

Lockwood and I leaped forward, swords out.

"What is it?" I cried.

"Fly. Wait . . .  _there."_ George slapped a cookbook down onto the counter. "Got the little pest."

We stared. Somewhere off along the street, the watch-light flicked off again. We stood in darkness.

" _George,"_  Lockwood said at last. "Don't scare us like that. Not over a fly. Now, keep looking outside."

"Right. Sorry."

George leaned over the sink again. For a long moment, he just stared, saying nothing; I shuffled over. "What is it  _now?"_

Lockwood groaned in exasperation behind us. "My God! George, just—just—" He turned on his heel and vented his irritation against the wall.

"Walls don't like rapiers, Lockwood . . ." I watched his fancy swordplay. The tip of his rapier skewered a chunk of peeling plaster; a flick sent it flying into the sink.

"Yeah, don't get a fit, now. It's just that the glass is all dirty on the outside." George scrubbed at the windowpane with an equally grimy shirtsleeve. "I can barely see a thing. Maybe . . ." He began unlatching the window, tugging at the rusted hinges. They squealed and screeched, resisting the pull; George gritted his teeth. "A little help would be nice."

Lockwood's mood swing had passed by now. Seeing that something was actually being accomplished, he cheerfully flashed a smile that glowed in the dark. "Oh, you're doing fine. Go on."

George pried away at the window, salty insults firing under his breath.

"Er . . . maybe . . ." I took a step forward in protest. The thought had flashed across my mind that perhaps opening the window wasn't  _quite_  the smartest thing to do. Sure, we could get a good look outside . . . but then the thing outside could also get a good look  _in._

Lockwood seemed to reach the same revelation, because he suddenly barked out: "George, stop. Leave it shut."

Too late.

George had heaved on the window one last, mighty time; with a squeal, it slid to the side and hung awkwardly on its hinges. Night air rushed in eagerly. It pawed at our clothes, ruffled our hair, and crept across the kitchen floor to dance throughout the rest of the house.

We stiffened.

Nothing happened.

"Close the window, George," Lockwood pressed. George moved forward to do so, his glasses dangling from one meaty hand. Something rustled outside. He paused, looked back. Slid his glasses on.

"Did you hear that?" he asked nervously.

Another rustle.

Lockwood's sword appeared in his hand. A black shape rose up on the windowsill.

"George!" I cried out through numb lips. He just stood there, gaping and shuddering from the chill. Strangely, I was  _cold,_ but not held in the grasp of malaise; I could move fairly easily.

And move I did.

I reacted instantly, darting across the kitchen; I knocked George to the ground as the shadowed form moved closer. We landed hard, splayed across the tiled floor in a jumble of tangled limbs and breathless lungs. The black shape, strangely small in stature, loomed over us . . . then it jumped over onto the table.

_Jumped?_

All at once, Lockwood let out a burst of laughter. It rang throughout the kitchen like a bright bell, and I felt myself begin to relax. If it truly were a threat, Lockwood wouldn't be laughing like that; not unless he was insane, which he  _wasn't_  (although sometimes I had doubts about that).

"Get up!" he called teasingly. "You two  _have_ to see this!"

"I'm assuming it's something humiliating," I grumbled.

George clambered to his feet and took a good long look. He shook his head, proffered a hand to me. I grabbed it, and he hauled me up.

"A  _cat_ ," I said with a sigh. "Bloody  _hell_."

A black cat sat innocently on the dining table, tail curled around its paws. Green eyes flashed at me, almost challengingly; the fur-ball meowed.

"Well done, Luce," Lockwood said, carefully reattaching his rapier to his belt. "You just saved George from  _this_ frightening phantom."

I rolled my eyes and ignored the blush that was creeping from my cheeks.

"You really scared us, kitty." Lockwood bent down and casually scratched the cat behind its ear. "But you just wanted to come in, didn't you?"

The black cat purred.

George turned the lights back on. "Well, just look at this mess."

A mess it was indeed. The orange chicken was scattered across the floor; stools were toppled over; the mops behind the door were fallen and draped across a drawer.  _And_ the wall beside the fridge was a scarred mess of rapier slashes.

Lockwood looked sheepish as we examined the last one. "Er . . . maybe you're not the only one who needs to work with anger management, Luce. Sorry, everyone. I'll fix it."

I snorted. "Don't apologize to  _us._ The wall needs to hear it."

For the next half-hour or so, with the troublesome cat seated on the table and watching us with stern eyes, we cleaned. We wiped the floor and propped up the brooms, cleared the table, washed a few dishes in the sink, shut the window, and set the stools straight up in their usual positions.

I finally sat tiredly at the table and put my head down on my arms. The clock read ten o'clock. Lockwood sat down as well, propping his feet up on a chair and flipping through a gossip magazine; the black cat lay curled in his lap. George perched himself on the counter and began idly cleaning his glasses.

"So what's going on tomorrow, George?" Lockwood finally asked. His voice reverberated through the table's wood to my ear; smiling slightly, I closed my eyes.

Now that I was resting, the soreness from today's events crashed down on my whole body. Was it only today, after all, that we'd gone to the Archives, and I'd been to Desko's office and Touched the bear? And then in the evening, we'd been burglarized, gone shopping, and now had a surprise visit by some random cat?

Even for me, a girl prone to action, it was a lot to have done in one day, one evening.

" _To think that some people just watch television,"_ Lockwood had said once.

I opened my eyes. Lockwood had set down the magazine, and was now softly stroking the cat with one hand. George was flipping through a sheet of clients. I looked at the cat, feeling a low resentment toward it for disturbing our dinner; it gazed back, lifted its lips, and silently  _hissed_ at me. I quickly shut my eyes again.

"We have a meeting early tomorrow morning," George was saying. "There's some couple, lives in a creaky house not far from here. Names are Ayala and Gary Baker."

"Sounds familiar. Have we had them before?"

"I think we had their daughter as a client once. You know . . ." An awkward cough. " _That_ girl . . ." 

A silence. "Sorry?"

My eyelids flickered open briefly. I cleared my throat. "I think it was that stuck-up one who asked you out on a date, remember? The one with all the eye makeup."

"Oh. Yeah. Er . . . I remember now. You turned her down for me, didn't you?"

"I just said we had work that day," I muttered, and turned my face so that it was pressed against the table wood. "You didn't mind, did you?"

"Not at all." I could practically hear the grin in his voice.

George pointedly cleared his throat. " _Anyway,_  the other day they were hosting some family reunion, blah, blah, blah . . . the children were playing in the living room."

"Bet they saw something," Lockwood cut in. He nudged my side with a sharp elbow. "Eh, Lucy?"

I grunted.

"Shut up, Lockwood. I'm talking. So," George continued, eyes flashing behind his glasses, "the adults were talking in the kitchen when they heard several screams. They went running into the living room, and found the children pressed up against the far wall, sobbing all over the place. When one boy was calm enough to speak, he claimed to have seen a man in a grubby yellow raincoat pressed up against the living room window, watching them with bloodshot eyes. He was beckoning the children to let him in, and when they refused, he began screaming and pounding the glass, eyes rolling crazily. He was still there, the little boy said; he was still watching them. When the adults looked,  _they_  saw nothing. But you can bet they sensed that something was definitely off." George smirked. "The party ended right then, but nobody left. The Visitor was still out there, after all. Waiting. Nobody opened the windows, and nobody opened the door. They were smarter than some."

"He was looking at the children," Lockwood observed. "Just the children? Was he seen anywhere else?"

As George read Lockwood the rest of his notes, I felt my eyes resting on the cat again. It was busily licking itself now, all proud and puffed up, black fur glossy. The fur at its neck was empty of a collar; we'd already checked. It was seemingly a stray, but well fed and quite adorable. Or, at least, Lockwood and George seemed to think so. The adorableness part, I mean.

I'd never been much of a cat person. Dogs were more my thing. Less hissy, less scratchy, and less prone to rip your eyeballs out and have them for Sunday dinner. Plus, I could bet that dogs didn't come calling to your window at night, startling the heck out of you and your companions.

 _And_ they probably wouldn't immediately set to work wrapping themselves around your leader's little finger, either. Nor his deputy's.

"Er . . . Lockwood?" I prodded. "Can you throw that . . . that thing out soon?"

The cat looked up, emerald eyes glaring at me; I stifled a shudder. "On second thoughts, throw it out  _now."_

Lockwood sighed. "All right." He picked the cat up and cradled it to the window. A slight push, and then it was open; a cool breeze whispered through the room. "Out you go, then."

A prod here, a jab there, and then the cat was outside, sitting mournfully on the grass. Lockwood hesitated; I got up and shut the window. "What was it thinking, trying to get in?"

"He," Lockwood said.

"Eh?"

"He's a he."

"I really don't care," I sighed, and with that, we all stumbled tiredly to bed.

* * * * *

I woke up the next morning to the sound of a ringing telephone.

"George!" I said groggily, blinking open bleary eyes. A giant yawn; I shoved my face back into my pillow. "Get the phone!"

There was no response. He was probably sleeping, which any decent person would probably be doing as well, at . . . I rolled over and glanced dazedly at the clock . . . at six in the morning. Which, admittedly, wouldn't be  _that_ early for some . . .

But it certainly was for me.

The phone kept ringing.

I pulled the blankets higher; somewhere, a bird cooed loudly, and I groaned. "Lockwood! Phone!"

There was no answer from him, either.

So that's how I found myself stumbling out of bed at six o'clock in the morning, dragging a quilt behind me, as I hurtled down several flights of stairs to the kitchen.

_Ring! Ring ring ring! Ring! Ring ring ring!_

I kicked aside one of George's textbooks as I dropped from the last step, sending it skidding into a hallway. My quilt dragged behind me; I hitched it up and made a grab at the phone.

_Ring! Ring ring ring! Ring! Ring ring—_

"Hello?" I snapped, in the aggrieved tone of the recently awakened. "It's a bit early."

"Ah, sorry . . . but is this Lockwood and Company?"

"Yes." I dragged the quilt over my shoulders, tried to keep my eyes from drooping. My toes were awfully cold against the tile floor.

"Well, I'm a client! And-"

I stifled a yawn. "Er . . . Miss Baker, calling hours are  _strictly_  from nine A.M to three P.M. Just so you know."

"Oh."

I slid down and leaned my back against the wall, curling my feet under my legs; the quilt was wrapped snugly around me. For a long while, Ayala Baker chattered away in my ear, changing today's appointment time to a later hour and discussing the benefits of night parties to day ones. After a time, I pointedly said farewell and hung up without much ceremony.

I put the phone back on its hook. Lockwood and George still weren't up (this could be told from the lack of commotion upstairs) so I made a pancake and sat by myself at the table. I read the thinking cloth as I ate, both smiling and sometimes grimacing over old memories; then I scribbled a brief note on the changed interview time as well, right beside a small sketch of the latest Italian rapiers.

The sprinklers whipped about in a neighbor's yard. Off in the distance, dogs barked. I drank some orange juice and put my plate in the sink. I vacuumed, washed some dishes, and patched up the broken window from yesterday's burglary. My colleagues still weren't up, and there were a few hours from now until the meeting with our client; I had nothing to do.

So I changed, slipped my feet into a pair of ratty old tennis shoes, and went for a walk.

The day was bright, the air crisp and cool; leaves skittered across the sidewalk. Across the street, a group of Rotwell agents were packing up their things on the lawn, slapping one another playfully on the back and congratulating each other for a mission well done. Their faces were bright, spirits soaring, life seemed full of possibility . . . and from my position on the porch, I watched them carefully.

One of the children noticed me; she hastily prodded the others. They were trespassing on  _my_ territory, Lockwood & Co.'s would-be business clients, and they knew it. A leveled glare was sent in their direction; a sheepish smile came in return. They packed up quite hurriedly and left, rapiers clanking. After a pause in which I smirked after their retreating backs, I straightened up and walked off as well.

The sun was beginning to beat down, glinting sharply off cars in a ray of bright white light; I squinted, slid on a pair of heavy-duty sunglasses. My feet plodded rhythmically against the ground. Somewhere, birds chirped.

As was the norm these days, I soon found myself lost in thought.

It really  _was_ all over, wasn't it? Our research into Matthew had ended. Perhaps I should be feeling some resignation, some tired indifference . . . but instead, the urgency to discover the truth about his death had only been inflamed even more.

I pushed open an iron gate and found myself standing at the entrance to Huntington Park.

Huntington Park was of the small sort, rather inconspicuous with a few playgrounds scattered here and there. Lockwood & Co. had been hired on occasion for its annual 'cleansing' of Visitors. There weren't any, of course, it being surrounded by a large iron gate; after a brief look-see, we'd sat ourselves on the tire swing and had a great time. Then the DEPRAC inspector had shown up like magic, and we'd been promptly kicked off any further park-examination jobs. 'Incompetence' and 'mockery of public safety' had been a few choice descriptions from the mailed report.

I closed the gate quietly behind me and perched myself on the tire-swing.

After Annie Ward, my Talent had only become stronger, surging in power, growing in its psychic strength. Now I was hearing things I hadn't been able to before: whispers in the walls, sometimes, from the dark things that lurked outside; or the soft rasp of fingers against the window during the night, when I was in bed under the blankets, curled on my side and wishing frantically for  _some damn way to shut them up._ They were everywhere, Visitors . . . and I had a habit of becoming attached to them.

I didn't want to be. I didn't even know why I was like this, why I always became so bonded with Visitors.

Maybe that's what scared me.

I kicked moodily at the ground, swinging back and forth. The sunglasses began slipping down my nose; I plucked them off and twirled them between my fingers.

_What should I do?_

Lockwood. I should talk to him. He always understood, or was at least  _there_ for me. Who'd think that there could be a person like him . . . I looked around self-consciously, caught sight of a couple locking lips on the grass, and grimaced. Some realization kicked in; I shook my head experimentally.

No.  _Lockwood_ was certainly no solution to my problems. He had been, after all, the one to make me promise not to contact Meredith or look for any more leads on Matthew's case. How was  _he_ supposed to help? He'd sooner let Flo (long story) teach lessons on sanitation than agree to have us continue the investigation.

So, in the end . . . this was all up to me.

I felt twitchy, irritated; I needed something to hit, or I'd be snappy all day.

The tire swing came to a slow stop. My feet dragged against the ground. Then, before the snogging couple over on the lawn had time to come up for air, I was through the gate and away down the street.

            * * * * *

Lady Esmeralda's face glared out at me with indignation as I hacked and slashed and jabbed. Her chain rattled above; the dummy swung wildly back and forth as my sword whipped through the air, cutting precise patterns.

I steadied her with one hand. Then, with a practiced twirl of the rapier, I set about a complicated arrangement of ward-knots. The rapier cut a brief pattern in the air beside her shoulder; then I feinted, shimmied to the right, sliced at her stomach, and struck viper-fast at her neck. Lady Esmeralda's head went rolling across the floor.

"Oh,  _look._  You've slaughtered her."

I palmed my rapier in my hand and wiped a bead of sweat from my brow. "I'll tape it back on. Sorry."

"It's all right. George is handy with the needle and thread; I'm sure he won't mind fixing Esmeralda back up." Lockwood bounded down the stairs into the rapier room, slinging a rapier off the rack as he went. "You're up earlier than usual. How long have you been awake?"

"Not long," I said, through a series of pants. "The phone was ringing . . . no one else seemed to be getting it."

"Oh, you should've just let it ring." Lockwood began to dust his hands off with chalk. "Mind if I join you?"

"No, of course not." My throat was parched; I took a sip of water. "Is George up?"

"Yeah. He's busy, though. I think pancakes are on their way." Lockwood was still in his pajamas. They were droopy, woolly, plaid things that hung on his frame and made him look even thinner than he was; now he rolled up the sleeves and grinned at me. There was a twinkle in his eye. "What do you say we have a contest?"

I eyed him doubtfully. "What kind of contest?"

Lockwood dragged Esmeralda off her chain and tucked her away in a corner. He picked up her head, as well, and placed it in her lap. "Just sparring."

" _Sparring?"_

"Don't look at me like that. You can do scary things with your eyes. And, yes,  _sparring._  Enough with the dummies—you need to try the real thing."

"But not against you," I protested.

"Why not?" Lockwood raised an eyebrow. "Are you afraid?"

I set my shoulders. "No."

He just smiled. I felt like bashing him over the head with my rapier hilt. He must've seen the thought in my eyes, though, because his smile only grew brighten. Then he flourished a hand persuasively in my direction, like some charming bellhop or sycophantic waiter.

"Whatever you say," Lockwood assured. "Still—do you want to try? Just to see how you'll do."

His tone indicated he didn't think the odds would be in my favor at all. Lockwood was just the  _teeny_  bit egotistical. A bit of competitive fire raced through me. "You know what? Fine. I've never sparred before, though."

"No problem. I'll go easy on you."

"I didn't say you had to go  _easy."_

"I've beaten Kipps," Lockwood warned.

"Kipps? Ha. If that's an accomplishment, then I really doubt—"

Lockwood's rapier lashed out suddenly, cutting through the air to my side; with a brief yelp, and without thinking, I blocked his edge with my flat. Metal sang. For a moment our blades hung in the air, pressuring each other, and then Lockwood backed away, swinging his rapier with him. He straightened up. I glared.

"I wasn't  _ready_!"

"Then  _be_ ready."

I wiped a sweaty palm on my skirt and took a deep breath.  _You got this, Carlyle._

Lockwood's eyes were gleaming brightly under the overhead lights. We watched each other carefully, feet shuffling quietly against the floor as we circled around and round, moving into position—

_Just take the initiative. Be aggressive._

I lunged in, rapier flashing; my hair whipped across my jaw. I caught a glimpse of flashing eyes, and then the two blades were singing, locked in quick clashes of iron.

"So, Lockwood-" I deflected a blow and feinted to one side. "Where'd you learn to spar?"

Our swords slammed against each other once, then twice. A trickle of sweat ran down my cheek.

"Picked it up over the years." Lockwood lunged in as I stumbled to avoid a rack of rapiers. I caught my myself at the last moment, breath hitching, and then jabbed outward without a second thought. Startled, Lockwood leaped backwards; his arms waved comically. I stifled a laugh.

Suddenly, his rapier pressed firmly against my own, stalling it in midair. I hesitated, tried to push my sword one way, then the other. It didn't budge. I tried again, pressing harder, face scrunching with the strain. Nothing happened. It was like my blade was frozen.

"This is something the Gravedigger Sykes taught me," Lockwood said. "It always works." He was grinning. I was scowling. We looked at each other.

And then I kicked out at his shin.

"Ow!" Lockwood hopped away on one leg, cursing. "What was that for? You can't kick someone in sparring!"

"You didn't say there were rules," I pointed out. "And anyway"-here I folded my arms, sword still dangling in my grasp-"that sword-lock thingy wasn't fair, either, was it?"

"Actually, it was." But now he was just looking at me with amusement again. "Anyway, not bad, Luce."

" _Not bad?"_ I glared at him indignantly, although there was a smile struggling out across my own face as well. "I had you!" I cried. "You were scrambling away, like—like—" I struggled to think of a simile.

"Like a person eager to get breakfast?" someone voiced from the doorway.

We both turned around, rapiers dangling loosely in our grasps. George, wearing sweat pants that were sagging dangerously low and a loose red T-shirt that only served to make his bulk appear wider, waved a frying pan urgently at us.

"The pancakes are getting cold. If you hurry, you might be able to eat a few that I leave behind." George smirked, looked from Lockwood to me. "Unless you're doing something  _important,_  that is." He raised a single eyebrow. We stared at him.

"We're coming, George," Lockwood insisted. "And if you touch  _any_ of our pancakes, I swear that I'll rip your head off. Very violently, too . . . wait, Luce—give me your rapier. I need to put them back on the rack."

George rolled his eyes. His pants began to droop down, and he swiftly hitched them back up again. As he swiveled on his heel to walk off, he caught my gaze. And then he winked.

* * * * * *

I could feel something stirring the moment I stepped into the yard. It was a low, buzzing current that wafted through the air, tickling my skin and coiling around my nerves until they felt ready to snap. My bones resonated with it; my ears rang dully. I stopped dead with my foot poised over the grass. "Do you feel that?"

Lockwood and George were ahead of me, lugging the duffels along, chatting aimlessly. At my words, George glanced back swiftly. "Feel  _what_?"

"A . . . buzzing."

The two of them stilled momentarily, letting their Talents take charge. I waited expectantly. Then George shook his head. "I can't sense anything."

"Me neither. Maybe it's from the telephone wires." Lockwood darted a glance up; there were, indeed, thick strands of wiring looping above our heads, connecting the telephone poles to one another. "It's too early for anything to be waking."

"But it's  _not_  the telephone wires," I said bluntly. The buzzing was fading away; a still, expectant silence took its place. I wasn't sure which was worse. "Are you sure you can't hear it?"

"No. You're our only Listener. But we trust your judgment," Lockwood assured. "Still, let's just get inside the house. We can deal with this later."

I took a deep breath. "Yeah. Sorry." Darting a quick glance across the lawn, I jogged quickly after them.

With the sun setting at our backs, casting a warm orange glow over the old house and its scraggly yard, we arrived at the doorstep of 413 Greene Road. I waited on the lowest porch step as Lockwood fiddled with the key, and looked out across the street. It was empty and silent, with only a few harried bicyclists whisking by. Over by the curb, the shutters around a watch-light began to lower.

The key turned, the lock clicked. Lockwood tucked the key into his pocket, then began sliding on his gloves as he turned around to face us. "Everyone ready?" he asked. "Once we go inside, it's business time.  _And_ this will be a stronger ghost than the last one we had—a granny, wasn't it?"

"Old lady," George corrected. "She came back as a Mournful Shade."

"Ah, they're basically the same thing." Lockwood's gaze focused in on me. "Luce? Are you okay with this?"

He was asking me personally if I was ready, I knew, because of all the trouble I'd had with Matthew. He thought I was worried about getting ghost-touched again, and that I was afraid of facing up against another powerful ghost.

Untrue.

Well, truthfully, every agent is concerned about ghost-touch; this applied to me still. But I wasn't  _afraid._ I was just as strong as I'd been before, and some past injury to my shoulder wasn't going to change that. Just because Matthew Callahan had rattled me once didn't mean that I was now the weak link of the group. I was fine. Two weeks of rest and calm had done me good, but now I was ready for action.  _Lockwood_ hadn't been moseying around after he was ghost-touched; we'd dived straight into Combe Carey Hall in nearly the same week.

 _He didn't have a strange connection with Visitors, though,_ a voice whispered in my ear.  _Not like you._

I set my jaw. "Yeah. We're ready."

"Let's go kill some ghosts," George said, with uncharacteristic relish; we grinned fondly at one another. Then Lockwood gave a gentle push, the door swung open grandly, and he and George bundled in at once. I took a moment to glance back, scanning the yard again; all appeared to be peaceful.

My neck prickling, I turned and followed them inside.

The air was sour and smelled like hair spray, but it was considerably warmer than outside. That made some sense. According to George, the ghost had been seen outside, floating before the living room window.

"Smells weird," George commented. His nose was scrunched up in disgust. "I need one of those lemon mints—now my mouth tastes funny, too."

"Your  _breath_ smells funny," I muttered, turning my face away.

Lockwood handed him the small box of mints without a word, then cast a sharp eye over the foyer. "Now, what do you say; shall we set up here?"

As the two boys wrestled our heavy duffels inside, I lit our lantern and raised it high. A dim circle of light extended out from it, bringing the forms of various pieces of furniture into sharper focus. There was a soft rug extending down a hallway to our right, and to our left was the living room. I turned around. "So what's the plan?"

Lockwood wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. "Wait till dark. The Visitor will probably appear in the garden again. Once it decides to return to the Source, we'll follow it."

"Sounds iffy."

"Those are the best types of plans. It leaves plenty of room for improvisation." Lockwood zipped up his coat as he spoke. Night was drawing in, and with it the temperature was falling drastically.

"Also, death," George put in. "Puts our skins on the line." He was fiddling with his belt-thermometer as he spoke, turning the dials and fine-tuning all of its measurements. The glow cast a greenish pallor on his face. As I watched him, I thought briefly about how odd he'd acted this morning (George and winking really don't mix). Afterwards, Lockwood had been distant during breakfast, acting too polite to me and verging on flat-out rude to George. As they had a quarrel of the silent sort, I'd helped myself to all of the pancakes.

"When have my plans ever failed?" Lockwood grinned at us. Then the bright smile faded and he shook his head, just as I was opening my mouth to start the (superbly long) list. "No, no, don't answer that."

"Sunlight's gone," George reported suddenly. He'd moved into the living room, and was peering out the window. "There's a watch-light at the end of the block, streets are empty, half-moon tonight, no movement outside, and . . ." He ducked his head down briefly to consult his thermometer. "It's fifty-one degrees right now."

"All right." Lockwood clapped his hands together; there was a blinding gleam in the darkness as he flashed a grin at us. "It'll be at least two hours' wait until the Visitor shows up, so until then . . . who's up for a game of Go Fish?"


	5. a promise is a promise

"All right, what time is it?"

"Almost nine, Lockwood."

"Already?" There was a quiet curse in the dark and then something scraped; the lantern at our side flared to life, casting a mellow beam of light over three bedraggled agents crouching low in a juniper bush. My eyes burned at the sudden brightness.

Lockwood shuffled closer on his heels, the bush catching at the edges of his ridiculously long coat. "It's near nine o'clock. That's when the ghost was spotted, right, George?"

"Right." George squirmed uncomfortably in his hunched position. "Er . . . Lucy, your foot is digging into my back."

"Sorry." I tried to wriggle further away.

"Ouch! Now it's your  _knee!"_

"Sorry, sorry." With some effort, we managed to move into more comfortable positions.

Lockwood pried a dangling branch out of his hair. "I know we're all feeling a bit claustrophobic—"

"Just a bit, yeah," I said.

"—but wait a few minutes. Once the Visitor shows up, we'll track it back to the Source and then secure it. This should be a piece of cake."

I snorted disbelievingly.

We waited for a bit longer. I listened absently to the rustle of the trees and the sound of distant traffic until a sharp movement caught my eye. I glanced over. George had bundled forward and was now hunched over his watch, the green glow giving his face an unhealthy pallor.

"It's nine o'clock sharp," he said suddenly. Now we all pressed forward, limbs tangling together and twigs scraping against our skin as we sought for a place to look out.

I peered out from between two branches, breath puffing out in front of me. The yard looked relatively empty. Moonlight highlighted the stubbly grass, and a squirrel balanced its way slowly across a neighboring fence. Nothing stirred. All was quiet, both in the normal and psychic sense.

"Lockwood?" I said softly. It was getting colder; I zipped up the front of my jacket. "Do you see anything?"

"No. There's nothing."

"It  _is_ nine, though, isn't it?"

"Right on the dot."

We continued looking out. I strained to listen, but heard nothing. Even the buzzing from earlier was gone.

The lantern guttered out.

I breathed evenly. Darkness settled over the juniper bush like a silken blindfold. "Lockwood?"

No answer.

The world was quite still, quite silent, and that's when I heard it. A faint buzzing, rising up and down in volume, growing louder and louder. And layered underneath it was the crunching of frosted grass under heavy boots, a noise that was growing closer to our hiding spot.

"I can't see a thing. Is that the Visitor?" I hissed.

No one answered.

My throat was suddenly dry; my heart seemed to skip a beat. "Lockwood. George. I can't see a damn thing, so talk to me!"

The sound of tromping boots continued on, moving across the lawn toward me. The buzzing grew louder in volume. It  _did_ sound much like, I suddenly rationalized, the power lines.

I turned rapidly, hoping to feel the press of another human body behind me, but there was nothing. Shock rolled over me like a crashing wave; I stumbled back and fell over the weighty form of our lantern. Head over heels I went, tumbling out of the bush and landing sprawled on the icy grass.

Ghost-fog swirled around my fingertips. The buzzing grew louder and louder, the boots picked up their pace, and I jerked myself upright—

And everything fell silent.

For a moment I squatted there on my heels, panting, ghost-fog trailing around my ankles; when I looked, the yard was completely empty. Then I brushed back a strand of hair and straightened up, pulled out my rapier with a clang of iron. I had no idea where my companions were, but I'd certainly find them, even if it meant that I had to beat up a bunch of invisible Visitors to do it—

Wait.

There was now a man standing on the lawn.

My eyes fixated first on his grimy yellow boots, then flicked up to his hands, which were the color of coffee, and then up again to the polished buttons of his blue raincoat.

" _The eyes,"_ a low voice soothed.  _"Look at the eyes."_

But I didn't want to. Something held me back.

" _The eyes."_

I resisted stubbornly and concentrated instead on the man's dark hair, fighting against the malaise that was gripping me. The ghost-fog rose and swirled about my knees; the air chilled. Only the solid feel of my rapier in hand kept me anchored to earth, and a past memory of a small child with light brown eyes, telling me how very  _cold_ he was . . .

And like how I'd been alone before, I realized, I was again. Sooner or later I'd be ghost-touched and carted off to the hospital once more. It would be just another failure to add to the list—

" _Look at the eyes!"_

I'd never discover what happened to Matthew. For so long, he hadn't had justice, and it seemed that he would never have it. I was a failure. I was too weak. Not strong enough—

No.

I struggled against the malaise. The ghost was drifting closer, and I saw his hands reaching out in a vaporous movement, ready to bring a painful death . . .

But I  _was_  strong. I'd done things before that no one else could have. I could fight this. I might have been ghost-touched before, I might've lost out in that fight against Matthew, but there was no reason to give up. The fact that I was alone was more reason to fight back.

" _Look at the eyes . . ."_

Something in me flared. The malaise broke; I sucked in a deep breath of damp night air and brought my rapier up. And then, perhaps stupidly, I did as asked.

I looked at the Visitor's eyes.

They were red, swirling infinitesimally. It reminded me of the twirling lights I used to see at the fortune-teller's booth back in my old village, when we had our carnivals; they were hypnotizing, almost entrancing.

I was afraid of what I could do. I was afraid of my unusually strong abilities. I thought they made me weaker, irrationally thought that they were something to be feared . . . but they weren't. In fact, they'd saved my life and that of others countless times over.

And now they would again.

The Visitor's red eyes had been sucking me in, leaving my mind wandering and loose; now I Listened, as hard as I could, and there I heard it—a faint weeping in the distance, and coursing through it was the sound of buzzing.

"There was a storm," I said softly, unclenching my jaw with some effort. "The electric lines fell, right on you and your children."

Was it just me or did those red eyes seem to fade in color? The best thing now was to give it hope of release.

"I can help," I assured. With one hand I maneuvered my rapier into a better position.

The Visitor wavered; its other-light flickered. Then it drifted backward through the growing ghost-fog, eyes still fixated on me, before turning and gliding swiftly across the yard. It disappeared before it touched the sidewalk, right beside the electric pole and a sprawling azalea bush.

I felt it was safe to sheathe my rapier. Then there was a rustle behind me and I turned, heartbeat speeding rapidly. A grin broke out across my face. "You're late, Lockwood."

Lockwood rubbed at his eyes and straightened up from behind the juniper bush. George popped up beside him. They both looked bleary and slightly out of it, like they'd been fast asleep this whole time.

"That was a Hypnotic Phantom," George informed. He took off his glasses and scrubbed them quickly on his shirt. "If you look into its eyes, it puts you into a trance 'til you fall asleep; then it's a swift ghost-touch to the throat and you're done for. It caught us by surprise. While you were looking out, Lockwood and I were snoring behind the juniper bush."

Lockwood met my steady gaze. "Luce—"

"Wait. There's something I need to do." With swift steps, I crossed the lawn and knelt down beside the azalea bush. The lines hummed overhead, coursing with electricity. I grappled underneath the bush for a bit, searching with a bated breath, and then my fingers grasped something solid.

I pulled it out and set it upon my lap.

It was the left-side rain-boot of a very small child.

The wind picked up. The buzzing began to return, and a pressure mounted in my ears. I felt a form shimmer behind me, the returning presence of a protective father, to look after what remained of his daughter.

"You don't have to watch over her anymore," I said quietly. Someone—George—knelt down and wordlessly handed me the net of iron. I pulled it over the boot and tied it shut; as I did so, the pressure disappeared, the buzzing died away and, as I watched, the Visitor scattered on the wind and was gone.

Like he'd never been there at all.

                                    * * * * * *

The next day, it rained.

Water poured down from the heavens in powerful torrents, pitter-pattering heavily against the streets and casting a slick, silvery sheen over the pavement. Most roads were silent, puddled with water and limp trash. On one such lane, the only movement to be seen was a drenched rat, fur spiking as it pried itself frantically out of a flooding sewer.

Suddenly, tires came screeching down the road. The car skidded. Rain pelted furiously against its hood as it rumbled over the grate, crushing the rat against the wet metal and extinguishing its life in mere seconds.

Then the car stopped, with a deep shudder and a hiss. The driver's door flew open. A stiff figure slid out, popping open an umbrella; the rainbow colors of the fabric looked out of place in the stark gray landscape.

Meredith Watson stalked up the path, her umbrella blowing above her, boots clicking against the cement. There was a rage brimming inside her, a simmering anger that felt so choking she just wanted to—

She jabbed a finger at the doorbell, pressing hard enough that her fingernail gouged the paint. And it hurt. The pain lanced through her finger, crawling its way through the bone, and, oddly enough, it calmed her momentarily.

_Enough anger. Leave it all at home. Just talk to Carla, and everything will be fine._

"Who is it?"

"It's me." Meredith took a step back as the lock clicked in its place. Then the door whipped open.

"What're you doing here?" Carla Callahan asked quietly. Her face seemed to be set in stone. One hand tightened around the doorknob as her cousin strode past, tossing her soaked coat carelessly onto the sofa. "Meredith?"

The other woman was already rummaging around in the kitchen. "Sit down. I'll make tea. And I forget, do you take sugar with it?" Cups clinked as Meredith began boiling the water. Her ponytail was soaked from the rain; it lay limply against her bony neck as she grabbed the sugar bowl.

"Yeah. Sugar's fine," Carla replied stiffly. A cold wind curled around her ankles; the door was still flung wide open. She closed the door with numb fingers and then sank into the sofa. "Why  _are_ you here?"

Her cousin, flurrying about in the kitchen, stilled momentarily. "Does there have to be a reason?" She laughed derisively. "I mean, really, I'm your c—"

"This is about the meeting I had with Scotland Yard,  _isn't_  it?"

Meredith paused. The spoon in her hand twitched slightly and sent grains of sugar pouring onto the counter. "I'll admit . . . I'm curious." The cups had been left to lie forlornly along the kitchen counter; now she roused herself again and began pouring the tea. "So how was it?"

How was it?

Carla Callahan settled her cold hands into her coat pockets. To be honest, the inspector hadn't been a horrible man (as she'd been expecting). He also didn't have a beard and cane (as she had also been expecting). There had been a few plain questions, bluntly put, and then a few more that she'd tried her best to answer truthfully. But all the while, he'd worn this  _suspicious_ look on his face that grabbed her mentally by the arm and led her swiftly into a barren jail cell.

"Frightening." Carla accepted the tea from her cousin and raised it automatically to her lips, but it was much too hot. She burned her tongue. "Ouch."

Meredith shook her head, concern creasing across her face. "Should I fetch some ice?"

"No. I'm fine." Carla set down her cup and forced a smile. "So—"

"Of course you're not fine. Look at you."

Carla felt a twinge of annoyance that didn't stem from her sore tongue. "What d'you mean,  _look at me?_ If I say I'm fine, then I am  _fine._ Don't worry about it. _"_

"Just let me get some ice." Meredith reached out and took Carla's cup away from her.

"Meredith! It's really all right. I just burned my—"

"I'll cool this down, too, and—"

"Meredith! Stop mothering me, okay?  _God,_ I just said that I'm  _fine!_ "

The words rang between them like a barrier. Meredith froze. She had this terrible look on her face, like she'd been slapped and betrayed and stabbed in the back all at once.

A headache began to throb in Carla's temples. She pressed a finger against her cheek and sighed deeply. "Sorry."

An uncertain smile cracked briefly across Meredith's lips. "No. It's all right." She set the tea back down and reached across to take her cousin's hand. "I understand. You're tired."

Carla passed a hand swiftly across her face. "Yes, I am. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to take it out on you. It's just . . ." Something swelled in her throat, and she tried to force it back down. Water swelled in the corner of her eyes; Carla took in a shuddering breath. "Oh, why am I  _crying?_  This is just—" Tears tumbled out of her and dripped into her lap. Carla swiped at her eyes in a futile effort to stop crying, but then her shoulders began to shake and the world blurred in front of her.

Worst of all, she'd just been sitting on this couch earlier deciding to be stronger. That she'd hold her head up high. Carla supposed that curling up on the couch and sobbing her heart out didn't exactly meet the standards of that decision.

Thin arms wrapped around her for a comforting embrace. "I  _did_ come here to talk about the meeting," Meredith admitted in low voice. "It looks like you need to, as well."

Carla squeezed her eyes shut. "I'm . . . actually not fine, Meredith. I'm worried. I think they're going to find something, I dunno . . . evidence? Fake evidence? Anything! And then—then—I didn't even  _do_ it," she wept. Her fingers were trembling again, but so was the rest of her. She was like glass, ready to break apart. "You should have seen them. Everyone was staring at me . . . like I'd done it. Like they just  _knew_ I'd done it. Like they thought I'd actually kill him, just like that, and . . . they don't know . . . how . . ." Her cheeks were damp and wet. Carla brushed at them with cold fingertips.

"Have some tea?"

Carla had some tea. Then she pushed it away from her. She'd stopped crying, but her nose was red and her cheeks were sticky and she knew she was probably a sickening sight to see.

"One day left. Then it's all over," Meredith said, and her eyes were almost glowing as she stroked her cousin's hair. "You won't have to worry any more."

Carla nodded. She swallowed hard. "I . . . I really miss him, Meredith."

They sat together on the sofa in a bundle of tears and embraces and warmth, while outside rain pitter-pattered on the roof.

That day, it rained.

                                    * * * * * *

"Lucy? Where are you? Lu-u-u-cy!"

Dark fog swirled all around me, blurring the outlines of the room. I raised my hands and felt along the wall, trying desperately to find the doorknob. Everything was in slow motion, like I was wading through chest-deep mud; but that was impossible, because the floor was completely clean . . . I shook my head and continued on, step after step, as a haunting voice searched for me in the gloom.

Suddenly, my foot caught on something. My breath caught; I let out a small cry as I sank down through the fog, landing softly on my back. My breaths were coming on in pants. I tried to rise.

And then—everything calmed. My body stilled. The only thing that moved were my eyes, and even that slowed as I stared up at one certain point in the fog with vision that slowly became blurry . . . until the only thing I could see above me was a shining face . . .

Matthew Callahan smiled sweetly and kissed me on the cheek. "Found you."

My lungs heaved; the air became frigid. I hyperventilated, trying to force the ghostly image away, but my hands only passed through his form.

I braced my hands against the floor. Icy sweat trickled down my neck. Fear, real fear, was flooding my veins, and I managed to roll clumsily away as Matthew floated toward me. I reached out through the fog, searching for something to grip—maybe a weapon? Iron?—but my fingertips tapped against a glass.

My heartbeat went faster as a mirror appeared in front of me. I almost didn't want to look. But I did. I had to.

My face . . . growing purple, swelling, the veins sticking out and my eyes bulging like rounded grapes in their sockets . . .

"No!" Panic overtook me. I lashed out with a hand; the mirror shattered and faded away into the fog. Final vestiges of strength wasted, I collapsed to the floor and focused only on getting bits of frigid air to my rotting lungs.

_Ghost-touched . . . where . . . am I?_

Matthew Callahan had drifted some feet away as I thrashed and panicked; now, as I had evidently calmed, he came floating back and hovered over my limp body.

"Can you help me?" he asked softly.

 _Help_ him? Right now, I couldn't even help myself.

"Help me, Lucy. Please."

Couldn't help anyone.

My vision began to darken. A hot tear prickled in the corner of my eye and then slipped slowly, slowly down my cheek.

_I don't want to go._

"Please help me. Like you helped the Raincoat Man." His face was close to mine now, eyes earnest. "You know you can do it. Come on, Lucy Carlyle."

For a moment, we simply stared at one another, me gasping for a breath and slowly fading from life, he not breathing at all and already stone dead. The fog curled around us protectively, as if we were wrapped in a dark cocoon.

His shining eyes. That innocence.

Help him like I'd done for the Raincoat Man?

_I will no longer be afraid of what I can do._

_I'll be strong._

Somehow, I managed to prop myself up on my elbow. The world was spinning as I reached out with a hand and took Matthew's in my own. "I . . . can do it. I'll help you, Matthew."

He beamed at me. "I knew you would say yes." Then, without further ado, he bent down and kissed me again on the forehead; the world spun faster and faster, I sucked in a deep, precious breath—

And my eyes snapped open.

Golden sunshine spilled from the shuttered window onto my bed, where I was curled up in a damp circle of sweat. There were tears streaked across my cheeks; I wiped them away with shaking fingers and sat up.

Footsteps moved slowly across the floor below. The smell of buttery pancakes was in the air. I sat there wearily, still feeling that chill in my bones, still remembering my thirsting lungs and the way Matthew Callahan's eyes had shone in the gloom . . .

I slipped out of bed and slid my feet into a pair of slippers. There was a mirror across the room. I hurried over and stood in front of it, examining every inch of skin. It was all warm and pink and fleshy and  _me._

It had been just a dream.

I stood back then and looked over my room, at the twisted blanket and the dust mingling in the air, and the warm sunlight that heated the floorboards. A low breath escaped me.

I'd made a promise to Matthew Callahan; I'd reassured him that I would help. I glanced back at the mirror.

"Sorry, Lockwood," I told my reflection. "Some promises just have to be broken."

Then I left the room.

                                                            * * * * *

Lockwood was sitting at the table with his feet propped up on a stool as I entered the kitchen; before him, a bulky newspaper lay outstretched over the cooling remnants of his breakfast. He didn't seem to notice me bounding in, and neither did George, who was sprawled at the other end of the table with a giant book in his lap and pieces of egg clinging to his chin.

I crossed the tiled floor with three quick steps and swung myself into the chair beside George's. He gave a quick start, a sharp inhalation of breath; the grubby glasses on his face jerked forward and pitched toward the ground.

I leaned over and caught them in one hand. "Ooh, watch out there. Almost broke the object of your pride and joy."

George muttered something under his breath and snatched the glasses away from me. He slipped them back onto his face without further ado. "You're just like Lockwood. Can't even eat breakfast without causing a scene." He flipped a few pages through his moth-eaten tome and then glanced up again, raising an eyebrow at the lounging boy across the table. "Eh, Lockwood?"

Anthony Lockwood slouched further in his chair and raised the newspaper so it shielded his face. "I've already apologized." The newspaper fluttered down again and Lockwood looked at me with an aggrieved expression. " _Multiple_ times."

I blinked. "Uh . . .  _what_ are we talking about, exactly? What did Lockwood do?"

And, higher on my list of priorities, where was breakfast?

"Oh, it's more like what he  _didn't_ do." The pages of the tome were flipped fiercely through. "Which was enter the kitchen in a normal way. In a  _normal way_ is all I'm asking."

"It was a perfectly normal way!" Lockwood protested.

"You catapulted  _over the kitchen table._  And then broke our best tea set."

My stomach rumbled. "All right, all right. Calm down. What's for breakfast?" I squinted at George's messy chin. "Scrambled eggs?"

"Yeah. It's on the stove." He turned his attentions back to his book.

I got up and returned a few minutes later with a plate full of scrambled eggs and sausages. Lockwood had disappeared; his chair was noticeably empty, although his crumpled newspaper and plate still lay on the table. George hadn't moved an inch, although as I watched him, one hand moved downward to scratch at his bum.

I sat down and began to eat in silence. My plate cleared fast; I leaned back a while later and fussed a bit with my hair. After a few lousy attempts, I gave up and let it fall back against my neck. Then I cast a cursory glance at George, who still hadn't budged.

Silence reigned from the rest of the house.

"Do we have any cases today?" I asked at last, clearing my throat.

The sandy-haired boy rubbed his eyes. "Nah. Lockwood's bought some new, techy gear, though; we'll take a trip to Victoria Street later and pick them up."

The fork fell out of my hand and into a puddle of ketchup. "That's on the same street as the DEPRAC headquarters, isn't it?"

"Mm-hmm. Unfortunately, that means it's within breathing distance of Barnes . . . why do you ask?" George turned to slurp at a cup of orange juice.

"Oh . . . nothing." I stared at my plate for a moment. The air was quite warm around me, and the clock was ticking noisily on the wall; golden rays of sunshine cascaded in from the kitchen window, melting across the kitchen table and reaching out toward me. I dangled my fingers in the light, a brief wave of loneliness suddenly crashing down on me; memories of my dream last night circled round and round in my head like an eerie merry-go-round. I got up abruptly and set my plate in the sink, then turned away. Maybe I'd find Lockwood, and we could work on that sparring thing again—

"Hey. Lucy."

I glanced back. "Yeah?"

George was twirling his fork with a casual skill. "You all right?"

_Not really._

"I'm fine."

George studied me carefully, but before he could say anything else, I walked off down the dark hallway.

                                                            * * * * *

I found Lockwood in the library, hunched over, his hands balled into fists under his chin as he gazed moodily across at the painting over the fireplace. It was one of three green pears resting against each other, their colors subtle and overlapping. His face was nostalgic, almost serene; as I observed, he let out a small sigh and closed his eyes.

I shifted my weight. A floorboard creaked underneath me. Lockwood's eyes snapped open and latched onto me before I could do anything but straighten in a panicked alarm.

"Luce?" he said. "I thought you were eating breakfast."

"I was." I crossed my arms and leaned against a nearby bookshelf. "Are you full? I think there were still some sausages left."

" . . . But you left them alone with George?"

"Yeah."

"Then I'd say there are no more sausages." His eyes twinkled briefly at me, then slid slowly back to the painting. My own gaze trailed after his.

"I've always wondered why you had that painting," I said. "You're not the type to have pears over the fireplace."

Lockwood smiled wanly, and the warmth of his eyes guttered out for a moment. "It was my mother's."

"Ah." An awkward second passed. Then I stepped into the room, skirting past one of George's many experiments that was propped up against the wall. A dribble of melted cheese was pooled alongside it; I hopped over it with amazing skill.

"Anyway," Lockwood said suddenly, with a forced lightness, "What do  _you_ think of it? The painting."

I tore my gaze away from the cheese, which was now curling threateningly towards my toes. "Well . . . I think it's subtle in beauty," I said thoughtfully, hopping past the cheese and toward him. "Like . . . it's hard to see, but it's always been there. You know? But they're just pears," I added hastily.

"Don't you go underestimating the value of pears," Lockwood said dryly. "But . . . as for the other stuff . . . I think you're quite right." He propped his chin back onto his fists.

I hopped up onto the couch and grabbed at a magazine that was lying forgotten on its armrest. It was mostly cheap advertising for everyday items from laundry detergent to obviously fake (at least, from an agent's perspective) _"fail-proof ghost catchers!"_

The next page, to my surprise, contained a small feature on the Callahan Case. I began reading with spiked interest, sitting up straighter in my chair and leaning closer to the glossy pages, only to flip past in disgust when it spelled our agency's name wrong (Locke, Wood & Co.) thrice in only one paragraph and went on to babble about the paranormal security of unused homes.

Meanwhile, Lockwood was still staring tiredly at the same painting.

"What're you thinking about?" I asked idly.

One shoulder flopped up and down in response. "Not much." An eye swiveled in its socket and scanned my face. "And too much."

"Getting all riddle-y, are we?" I tossed the magazine away and slouched down deep into the armchair. "Let me know when you reach equilibrium."

He didn't seem to hear me.

"So, what's  _one_  thing that you're thinking about?"

Lockwood lifted his head slightly. "Well . . . Lucy, are you angry with me?" he asked suddenly.

" _Angry?_  What for?"

"You know. That promise I made you give back at the supermarket."

Oh. The one where I'd sworn not to contact Meredith or Carla Callahan, and that I would stay out of the case. Yes. That one.

Ahem.

" . . . Sure, I remember," I said, avoiding his gaze and concentrating instead on smoothing out all the wrinkles in my skirt. "But I'm not mad. I understand."

"Good." Lockwood's tone was one of relief. "I never meant to . . . I just thought . . ." He shook his head. Then he turned around on his seat and faced me, seeming a bit lighter and relaxed. "Also, I've been meaning to congratulate you for that job the other night. Excellent work."

I coughed lightly. "Oh, it was all right. Nothing that was too hard to handle."

"Ah, modesty," Lockwood said, grinning at me. "It's a waste of time."

"Right. Well, at least I'm not a cocky, arrogant— _ack!"_ I stumbled back a few paces and grabbed the furry object that had gone flying onto my face. It clung harder, claws digging into the sides of my head, and as I breathed in fur and dust I fought the urge to scream. "GET OFF!"

With another ferocious yank, I finally managed to pull it off me and send it barreling into the hallway.

At that very moment, George stepped into the room; a flying mass of black fur fell into his arms, scrabbled for a moment, and then lay there limply.

We all froze.

I leaned forward. Took a closer look.

"Lockwood," I said, as casually as I could manage, "what's a cat—over  _there,_ don't pretend like you can't see it—doing in our living room?"

Lockwood smiled winningly. "Ah, come on, Luce. He was only stopping by."

"Right. And mauling my face while he was at it." I spotted an open window out of the corner of my eye and marched over to close it. "What, was it pawing at the window in dejection again? Did your tender heart bleed with pity?"

"Detecting rising levels of sarcasm," George muttered under his breath. I glared at him.

As the cat curled and weaved around our legs, Lockwood abruptly shook back his coat sleeve and glanced at his watch. "We have to leave now if we're going to take the Tube," he said. "The crowds get even worse at lunchtime."

A little while later, we emerged from the depths of the Underground and into the glaring day, shielding the sun out of our eyes as we picked our way down the sidewalk. All around us, bright neon lights flashed merrily, directing us to one shop or another with the promise of 50 percent off discounts and one-time-only sales. A slight wind had picked up as we walked, sending my hair whipping across my face in feathery strands. Then, after a few more steps, we were around the corner and stepping through a side alleyway. The wind cut off abruptly; I smoothed out my skirt and peeled a few hairs out of my mouth.

The entrance to  _Atwal's P.T_ was sequestered between a dumpster and a molding bookstore, just about as nondescript as a store could get on Victoria Street. The windows were tinted. There were no flashing OPEN signs begging for us to take a glance inside, just a plain square plaque on the door that read  _Paranormal Technology_. It seemed like Lockwood's type of place, quiet and slightly classy.

We stepped inside.

The store was brightly lit, with several aisles leading off among tall shelves of equipment. Directly in front of us was a desk, and seated behind it was a young woman. She blew a bubble of gum, popped it, and then said in a slightly bored tone, "Do you need any assistance?"

"Yes, thank you," Lockwood said. He smiled charmingly. "We ordered a set of new mag-flares, and—"

"Oh. Are you Anthony Lockwood?" Another bubble was popped.

"That's me."

"Stay here. I'll go get it." Long legs were unfolded from underneath the desk, and then the girl swept around to a curtained doorway behind her. There was the sound of tinkling bells as she brushed through. Then the curtain fell back again, and the store was blanketed in silence once more.

" _Chandravathi!"_ A voice rang out suddenly from among the shelves. Then an old woman came shuffling out; her features had the same angles and curves as the girl's. She huffed for a moment, catching her breath, and then planted a large cardboard box onto the front desk. There was a muffled  _thud_ as it landed.

"She's in the back," I said, gesturing to the curtained doorway. The old woman pressed her hands to her back and leaned backwards; a few sharp cracks sounded out. Round, black eyes suspiciously at the three of us.

"Doing what?" the old woman demanded.

"We ordered some gear a few weeks ago," Lockwood explained. "She went to grab it for us."

"But I need her to take  _this"—_ here the old woman waved her hands at the cardboard box—"to that DEPRAC building across the street. Oh, she's useless, I can never rely on her to do anything—"

"Really, Amma?" the girl reappeared, toting a few boxes in her arms now. She hauled them over to Lockwood and planted them beside the large cardboard box. "Isn't there someone else you can go criticize? Hopefully, someone very far away?"

They glowered at each other. Then, before the bickering could  _really_ break out, I spoke up.

"I'll take the box. It goes to DEPRAC, right?"

Four pairs of eyes swiveled to look at me. I smiled sweetly.

The old woman grunted her consent. "All right. But be fast. And don't you  _dare_  touch anything inside that box, or I'll have you in court faster than you can say 'curiosity killed the cat.'"

" 'But satisfaction brought it back,'" George muttered under his breath, and I fought the urge to smile.

"Hurry back, Luce," Lockwood said to me. There was a strange expression on his face as I gathered up the box and headed for the door; then he looked to George, and finally at the two Atwal women. "So," he was saying cheerily as I left, "can you give us a demonstration on those new mag-flares?"

                                                * * * * * *

**_~Four Years Earlier~_ **

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's me." Meredith shifted on her feet; a deep breath puffed out of her. The phone had been ringing for so long . . . she'd been  _sure_  that no one was going to pick up on the other end. A warm, comforting feeling began to spread through her, like Meredith had just been wrapped in a thick quilt with a cup of hot cocoa in her hand to boot, and she relaxed languidly against the wall. "Good morning, Carla."

"Oh, hi!" There was a chopping noise from the other end of the line. Then Carla's voice came bubbling out again. "Yeah, what's up? I haven't heard from you for  _days._ Mattie's been missing his favorite auntie."

"I'm his only aunt."

"Right."

Meredith glanced down at her watch. "It's twelve right now. Would you like to have lunch together?"

"Lunch? I—hold on a sec . . . don't touch the phone, please, Mattie—I don't think I can make it, Meredith. I'm sorry. Matthew needs his nap, and Freddie—oh Mattie, get  _down!_ Mommy's cutting apples with a very sharp knife, and I don't want you to hurt yourself . . ."

Meredith waited through the dialogue with an increasing impatience. There was a crackle through the telephone, then the sound of water in the sink, and then Carla's voice came back through. "Anyway, I'm  _really_ sorry about lunch. Maybe another time?"

"If you're not busy with Matthew," Meredith murmured. The underlying venom in her own voice caught her by surprise.

"Oh,  _Mer_ edith _. . ._  please. You're always so dramatic. Why don't you just ask a friend for today? Don't b—"

At that moment, the call cut off abruptly. Time had run out on them. Meredith, ignoring the growing line behind her, patted through her pockets. They were empty, with nothing but a few specks of lint and a decades-old lemon drop to meet her hopeful fingertips, so she forced the sticking door of the telephone booth open and then stepped outside.

_Ask a friend._

Her lip curled upward in a bitter sneer. Then it faded away; something sour and painful took its place. Ignoring the growing heaviness in her heart, Meredith Watson jostled her way down the busy sidewalk.

Just another lonely fish in the crowd.

                                    * * * * * *

**~Present Day~**

The first thing you notice when you step into DEPRAC is the smell of jasmine.

After you've gotten over the fact that the uptight headquarters of paranormal research smells like a lady's  _perfume,_  it's a quick switch to gazing, slack-jawed, at the enormous crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and at the 15th-century floral paintings decorating the marble walls. Then it's a quick nip over to the main desk, where a friendly young man with over-greased hair greets you cheerily and signs the check with a flourish.

I'd already been into the headquarters before, so I went through the steps at speed. Before I knew it, I was standing in the center of the lobby with my hands in the pockets of my coat.

I looked at the chandelier again. It was a very pretty, sparkly thing that caught the light. Lockwood would have liked it, I think. And George wouldn't have noticed it at all.

My gaze drifted lazily away, and to the side; quite coincidentally, it finally fell on the image of a metal cart pushed up against one wall. It was stacked with glass containers.

My breath caught. I looked around. Then, not even looking  _marginally_ innocent in the least, I hurried towards that cart of silver-glass containers-because there was nothing else that it  _could_ be.

And there was little hope of it even being there, but . . .

My breath quickened as I saw it, shelved casually beside a pair of floating eyeballs. I shot another quick glance over my shoulder. There was nobody watching; the mood in the whole room was of a relaxed sleepiness.

I crept closer, toes whispering over marble, and bent over slightly. Quickly, I read the words printed on the side of the cart:  **Due For Incineration, Caution: Highly Dangerous Objects.** I reached out a hand.

"  _. . . We're not going to investigate in Matthew Callahan any more. Understood?"_

A memory of Lockwood's words whispered suddenly in my ear; I clenched my teeth. My hand was still outstretched, pausing in the middle of the air, wavering slightly. Then I shut my eyes, whispered, "Oh, God  _damn_  it,"and grabbed the jar off the cart as quick as a wink.

Just for the record, I stuffed it under my coat afterwards. Not the smartest idea at the time, but believe me, I've had plenty of those.

" _It's for the good of the agency,"_ Lockwood-My-Conscience said sternly.

I shook my head almost imperceptibly to myself.

" _You_ promised _me you wouldn't investigate."_

A twinge of guilt passed through me. The jar seemed to double in weight. I clamped my arms more tightly over it, and my skin began to crawl as I thought more carefully about what was inside.

This was a stupid plan, I realized. Very stupid. What had I been thinking?

I let the jar slide out of my coat and into my hands. The glass was slightly clammy from being stuffed inside my clothes and unusually cold to the touch. I looked down at it for a moment. Then I turned around and placed it carefully back in its spot.

"Good decision, Miss Carlyle."

My back stiffened; I knew that voice.

"Turn around, please. Slowly."

I jammed my hands into my pockets and shuffled around to face him.

Inspector James A. Desko stared coolly back at me, fiddling with the unlit cigarette in his mouth. Behind him stood the young man from the front desk. He looked nervously at me, forehead glinting with sweat. Desko clapped him once on the shoulder.

"I was heading out for a breath of air," he said lightly, "when this young man approached and said, well, that there was a girl in the corner that had just sneaked a silver-glass jar up her front coat. What do you have to say to that?"

My mouth had gone suddenly dry. I took a deep breath and smiled as brightly as I could at the inspector.

"The girl put the jar back," I said sweetly.

Desko eyed me for a moment. His gaze was like a hawk's. My smile faded; I fiddled awkwardly with the buttons on my coat. At last, the inspector cleared his throat and took the glass-jar from me. I let it go without much resistance.

"What did you want with this?" he asked.

I shrugged listlessly.

"Perhaps you'd rather tell Inspector  _Barnes_?"

My cheeks flushed. I could easily imagine the stuffy inspector's reaction; it would probably involve a hissy fit and my instant deportation from London.

"No, thanks. Um. Well, you see . . . I just . . ." My fingers fell away from the buttons on my coat, and I glanced swiftly to the window looking out on the street. Lockwood and George were probably wondering what was taking me so long. After all, mag-flares could keep them occupied for only so long. "I thought that if I tried my Touch on the bear again, I could find something new," I said honestly. "I didn't think DEPRAC would let me try it, especially after they found our . . . file on Carla Callahan."

"Yes, that little fiasco didn't go down so well." Desko said drily. He tapped the glass absently with one fingernail. "How do you know that this time will be any different?"

"I don't."

Desko slipped the cigarette resignedly out of his mouth and tucked it neatly into a pocket. "Miss Carlyle, you're lucky that I share the same optimistic approach as you, because I could  _easily"—_ here he shook a sausage-like finger in my face—"have revoked your agent's license for a  _month_ for attempted theft of government property. Do you understand those implications?"

Furiously, I opened my mouth to speak. And realized that I had nothing to say. Desko gave me another piercing look. Then he turned on his heel and strode away. Standing by the cart, I hesitated. Desko still had the glass-jar tucked under one arm.

"Inspector?" I called.

"Follow me, quickly," he said in irritation. "Since you're willing, we're going to try this out again."

I thought of the Raincoat Man and my promise to Matthew, and then before I could change my mind I sprinted after him.

            * * * * * *

"You're quite the troublemaker, Miss Carlyle."

I followed Desko through the corridors of DEPRAC, hands shoved deep into my coat pockets. We had walked in a relative silence so far, aside from the usual awkward small talk on the weather and work. Now I cleared my throat and glanced up at the inspector.

"So  _am_  I in trouble?"

"You very well should be," Desko muttered. "Trying to steal a silver-glass . . . Do you have any idea of the reputation your agency has in DEPRAC?"

"I think I have an idea," I said. "A prestigious reputation, I'd say, that's sterling-silver; an agency of highly intelligent and capable agents that could draw rings around Fittes. We're the ones to call on when you're in need. Oh—and we're all dashingly  _gorgeous_  in Lockwood and Co., too."

Desko stopped. His hands twitched to his breast pocket, out of which the very top of a cigarette could be seen. Then he sighed, rubbed a hand across his eyes, and continued walking. "I hope that was a joke."

I shrugged, my brief spurt of humor all worn out. We took a turn at one corner of the corridor and stopped at his office door. I'd been here before.

Desko pushed the door open and flicked on the lights. "Anyway, your agency sure likes to press DEPRAC's buttons. You should know, Miss Carlyle, that one day our patience is going to run out. That, or you'll be dead because of some stupid thing or the other. Or in jail. Didn't you burn down a client's house last year?"

"It was an accident," I muttered.

Desko gave me a look. "A pretty big accident. Also on your list of 'pretty big accidents' is that  _file_ on Carla Callahan you reported stolen a few days ago! It was a complete invasion into her privacy. If you're going to do something like that," he said reprovingly, "you shouldn't tell DEPRAC about it."

I replied to his stern lecture with something intelligent-sounding, like: "Um. Right."

The inspector placed the jar in my hands. "Good. All right, Miss Carlyle. If you're ready, then go for it."

My heartbeat picked up speed. I could already imagine that choking sadness, the anger a person could drown in. "Right now?" I asked lamely.

Desko settled into his chair. "Look, Miss Carlyle. You look like a strong young woman.  _I_ think you can handle this. However, if you're having second thoughts, then feel free to walk out of my office right now."

I paused. Then I shook my head.

"No," I said firmly. "This was my idea. I'm doing this."

"That's the spirit! Now go on."

I sat back in one of his armchairs and placed the jar in my lap. I didn't miss the excited glint in Desko's eye, or the tight way he held his pencil in his hand. I guess the inspector did have some hope in me, after all.

Here I go. Watch Lucy Carlyle do yet another stupid thing.

I took a deep breath. And then I pulled the bear out.

For a moment it rested quietly in my arms as I looked down at it, my heart beating wildly. I had a split-second to notice how soft it was in my arms, and how worn; Matthew had loved this bear very much. His laughter echoed in my ears.

Then it all started.

Various sensations flooded into me, slamming into my mind like a powerful torrent of water. I shuddered; my eyes forced themselves closed.

I had Touched the bear before, but this time it was different.

It started out with a new emotion.

Joy.

I was giggling, the sound of my laughter ringing through the air, with the taste of apples and sugary cake on my lips. Then came a warm embrace, a soft kiss, that left me feeling as though everything was right in the world, and I was safe, nothing could hurt me—there was the whole world out there to explore, and I was content. The scent of honey, crisp apples, and sweet iced tea; the feel of warm wooden floorboards under tender feet; and love, love, an immense wave of joy and happiness that swept over me and left me gasping.

An image swam suddenly before my closed eyelids, and I fought to remember it; the sight became burned into my mind. As it did, a shock laced through me. I tried to open my eyes. They wouldn't.

And then there was confusion.

Fear.

I felt the hope that, if I were good, all the love would return again.

Oh, pretty please?

I shuddered.  _Get me out of here . . . get me out of here . . . I don't want to see this . . . get me out of here!_

Waves of emotion that I—Matthew—had never experienced before swarmed me. Pain. I waited helplessly for the love to come rushing back, hoping against hope that it would come.

But the only thing that came was darkness.

Thick and soupy, it coiled around my thoughts.

I’m not sure how long I was out, but there was a noise, loud and fuzzy, ringing through my ears. I shifted slightly; the sound sharpened, molded itself into words.

" . . . Miss Carlyle?"

"Wake up, Miss Carlyle. Open your eyes."

My tongue was so dry it felt like sandpaper; my eyelids were heavier than stone blocks. I couldn't lift them.

"Tell me what you felt," the voice persisted. I felt irritation swell up inside of me. Why wouldn't it just let me  _sleep?_  What was going on? If George was slapping me awake with a folder again, I'll  _kill him—_

Wait.

I was in Desko's office.

My eyes snapped open to the blurry image of Desko's face hovering at the edge of the armchair. He gave an awkward wave.

"After you touched the bear," he told me, "I think you were so exhausted that you took a nap right then and there. I couldn't wake you."

"A nap?" I mumbled. "I can't take a nap, because I need to be back—I need to—oh,  _no."_ My stomach suddenly grew wings and flew into my throat. I almost choked. "George and Lockwood! They're looking at equipment . . . I was sent to deliver a package to DEPRAC . . . they'll be wondering—how long was I asleep?" I asked desperately.

The inspector peeked at his watch. "Maybe twenty minutes?"

"Shoot!" I pulled myself out of the armchair and threw the silver-glass jar into the imprint I left behind. "I need to go. I'll ring your office when I get home, tell you what I saw—it's important."

"Wait—"

I was already dashing down the hall.


	6. the chalk cliffs of dover

Years later, I'd be able to look back and still remember the rising fear I felt as I ran through the winding halls of DEPRAC. It wasn't the choking kind that I'd felt through Matthew, but more of a slow, simmering panic that threatened to turn all my bones into mush. I had a made a promise to Lockwood.

And I had just  _broken_ it.

No, more than that: I had done the equivalent of tearing my promise into a bajillion scrumpled pieces and then feeding them to George's dirty underwear.

If he found out . . . Lockwood rarely ever got angry, but when he did, it wasn't something that you wanted to stick around and see. Most certainly, you didn't want to be the  _recipient_ of his fury.

Worse than that . . . I was his friend. We'd had each other's backs for more times than we could count. He, George, and I were just as tight as the bonded family I'd never had. Heck, we lived under the same _roof_. Because of all that, Lockwood trusted me. I didn't think that I'd be able to bear breaking that trust.

But I just had.

 _Stupid, stupid,_ stupid  _. . . why don't you_ ever _think before you act?_

I wanted to bang my head against the wall and curse loudly (and dirtily) enough to raise the dead, but there was no time. I had to get back. Maybe Lockwood and George  _hadn't_ realized, and were still poring over the new equipment . . .

I skidded around a group of office workers talking in the hall and burst through an open doorway. The flooring beneath my feet changed into pristine marble, slippery as butter under my worn lace-up boots. My body lurched forward; a gasp flew out of my mouth; I flapped my arms in an ungainly way, grasped uselessly at the air above me, and went spilling down the steps to the main lobby.

The fall knocked all breath out of me. For a moment, I just lay there quietly with my forehead pressed to the marble floor. Then, with a small groan, I raised my head.

Anthony Lockwood looked back at me.

"Hey, Luce," he said calmly. "Where've you been?"

I'm sure my face turned as red as a tomato, because George (who was beside him) snickered loudly.

I sat up (painfully) and rubbed at my aching head. "Oh, you know," I said thickly, my tongue fumbling around each word. "Around. After I delivered the package, I had to go to the loo."

"The loo?" The counter-boy from before was passing by. He stopped and pointed in the opposite direction. "It's right over there, miss."

I resisted the urge to kick him through the glass door. "Right," I said through gritted teeth. "Great."

The three of us watched him continue on his way; when he was a satisfactory distance away, Lockwood and George zoomed back in on me. I stared back at them stonily.

"You didn't come back for a long while," Lockwood told me quietly. His face was cold and unreadable. "We came looking for you. We were worried."

Another lie was ready to burst off my tongue, but then I took another look at Lockwood's face. The words died in my mouth; I glanced away. "You don't need to worry about me. I can take care of myself.  _And I was just looking for the bathroom,_ " I added in a harsh undertone.

"Funny, that," George said lightly. His normally dull eyes pierced me in a way that suggested he found it anything but funny. "I remember you used the toilet right before we left the house."

"What are you, a stalker?" I snapped. We glared at each other.

Lockwood straightened up and shook his head. "Okay, Luce. Whatever you say. But let's go; I think it's about to rain, and we need to get the equipment back home."

Their boxes were stacked in a jumble by the front entrance. I picked one up in my arms and followed George out the door, stewing angrily inside even though I knew I had no right to.  _I_ was the one _,_ after all, that had broken a promise.

Lockwood soon passed George and I with his long, even strides, and we settled into a pace with him ahead of us, long coat flapping in the wind. I let my gaze fall on the sidewalk. We walked for a while down the street with not a sound between us except for the tap of our feet on the pavement. I felt antsy, restless; I wanted to throw the boxes to the ground and run all the way home, if only I could escape the silent tension between us three.

George couched lightly. I darted a glance at him.

"You Touched the bear again, didn't you?" George kept his beady gaze fixed on some point in the distance.

I struggled to keep my face even. "George, I—"

"Didn't you?"

A wash of shame swept over me so strong that I felt almost sick. I swallowed hard, forced some words out of my mouth. "I . . . George . . ."

We looked at each other. I broke down.

"Yeah," I said lowly. "I did. I had to."

He grunted and shifted the boxes in his arms.

"How'd you know?"

"You always have this peaky look after you've Touched something strong. Like you just vomited. I don't think Lockwood noticed . . . but I don't think he bought your bathroom story, either."

"You  _are_  a stalker," I marveled, stepping to the side to avoid a stroller. George shrugged his shoulders, still as impassive as ever.

"I'm just observant," he said with a roll of the eyes. "You'd notice more things if you'd just  _look_ sometimes."

"Notice things? Like what?" I demanded, leaning forward so I could look George in the eye. He raised a single eyebrow at me.

"See? Just like that. You need to be more observant," the boy said with relish. He grinned maliciously at me.

Some time later, we arrived back home and bundled inside. I put my boxes on the kitchen table, feeling wearier than before. As soon as we'd walked inside, Lockwood had disappeared somewhere. So had George. I was left to unpack the boxes and categorize the items, feeling a numbness creep through me as I worked—but at the same time, a sharp thrill still simmered in my stomach.

I knew exactly who had murdered Matthew Callahan.

I cut through the top of one box with a kitchen knife, thinking hard as I worked.  _How_  could I prove that what I knew was real? And could I do it alone? After all, George and Lockwood had already made it clear that they wanted nothing more to do with the Callahan case . . .

All of a sudden, I felt quite a bit lonely in the kitchen. I ripped through another box and pulled out the bags of iron inside, weighing them briefly in my palm.

"There's silver dust mixed in those," said a voice from the doorway.

I set the iron back down on the table and reached for the next box. "Hey, Lockwood."

He came to the table and sat down in a chair, reached for one of the boxes. "George told me what you did."

So  _that's_ what they'd been up to.

I punched the knife into another box, briefly imagining that it was George in front of me. Lockwood made a small sound in his throat; I glanced at him.

"There's good equipment inside," he protested. "Be careful with it."

"I  _am."_ I reached inside the box and tugged out a few mag-flares. "And what do you think?"

"Well, they're designed by Fittes, so they're obviously going to be well-made . . . I'm not sure about the blast size, though—usually in our cases, we don't need a mag-flare quite so powerful—"

"I  _meant_ what do you think about what George told you." I paused in my work, stilled myself for his response.

Lockwood took his time slicing through the top of a box before he responded. "I'm not exactly sure what to think. I trust you, Lucy," he told me. "I always will. And I'm not expecting you to always listen to what I say, or unfailingly follow my orders, or anything like that—but from now on,  _a promise is a promise_ , okay?"

"Right," I said softly. "I'm sorry."

"I get it. You did what you felt was right." A warm smile bloomed suddenly on Lockwood's face. "That's how it should always be."

I grinned back in relief.

"Anyway," Lockwood said casually. He propped his spindly elbows on the table and leaned forward to rest his chin in his hands. "What happened when you Touched the bear?"

I looked suspiciously into his eyes. "I thought  _you_ were the one to ban us from the case. And now you're curious about it? This is so ironic!" I paused. "Or maybe you're being a hypocrite. I can't tell which."

The lanky boy's lips twitched into a small grin. "I'm  _neither."_

"Right. Of course you're not," I said, sarcasm dripping from my lips.

The grin grew wider, until I was practically blinded by a row of bright white teeth. I fought the urge to put my hand up to block it; this was Lockwood's Megawatt Smile™ in full-force.

"Also, stop bloody  _smiling_  so much," I grumbled, grabbing my knife again. "It's like you're the Cheshire Cat or something."

"Luce, you can't stop people from being  _happy . . ."_

Suddenly, a piercing screech echoed down the hall. Lockwood and I jumped in our seats; the kitchen knife in my hand slipped and nicked the side of my thumb. Blood welled up from the cut.

Silence lapsed.

I threw the knife onto the table with a clatter and sucked at the side of my thumb. The metallic taste of blood ran down my throat; I grimaced. "Wah wuth tha?"

"Sorry?" Lockwood said politely.

I dropped my hand. "What was  _that_?"

" . . . Maybe George got his bottom stuck in the toilet bowl again."

"Yeah. You're probably right," I agreed. "That's all it is . . ."

We gave each other matching looks of concern.

"We'd better go check on him, then," I added. I thought suddenly of the burglaries we'd had before, and my heart picked up speed.

We sprinted out into the hall.

"George?" I called. My gaze slid down the carpeted hallway, past the shelves stuffed with tribal masks, totems, and other random tidbits, to a small figure huddled in the farthest corner. There was a much larger shape crouching next to it; I recognized the greasy glasses and sandy hair, and (much to my surprise) a bit of relief crept back into me.

I still wanted to stick him with the kitchen knife, though. He  _had_ ratted me out to Lockwood. I hope he understood that by the force of the glare I was giving him now.

"What's going on?" Lockwood was saying. "George—is there a problem?"

I had already shifted my gaze to the object next to George. "Is that the  _cat?"_ I demanded. "Please tell me that's not the cat."

"It's the cat," George grunted. He lifted it up and held it out to us. "I kind of closed the door on it."

The black cat did look rather squashed. The fur on one side was rumpled and messy, and it wore an aggrieved expression (if cats can have those) on its face. I felt a pang of sympathy for it. "Is it hurt?"

"I don't think so." George unceremoniously dropped the cat onto the floor. It arched its back and hissed at him; then it darted across the floor to hide behind Lockwood's legs.

"Prickly thing," I commented. Lockwood and George turned to me with amused expressions; I scowled back.

"I'm not going to saying a thing about the irony of that," Lockwood told me lightly. "Not a thing at all."

"Good," I muttered. "You've already said enough ironic things today."

* * * * * *

_3 ½ years ago_

The windows were dark, the curtains lying still against the rain-soaked glass, and there was not a sound coming from inside the little house. Even as she listened, straining her ears, she heard no whisper of noise; there was nothing but the sound of the trees sighing above her, and the pitter-patter of raindrops kissing the sidewalk.

It was, Meredith thought with some amusement, as quiet as the grave.

She stretched a pale hand out and pushed gently on the door. It swung wide open. With the rain beating against her back, Meredith Watson closed her umbrella and slipped silently into the house.

There were a variety of shoes in a jumble around the doorway, as well as a small drenched raincoat. She stepped around them all, laid her umbrella against the wall, and paused.

A faint, muffled sound of weeping carried down the hall.

Meredith drew herself up and flicked the last drops of water from her coat. Down the hall, last door on the right. Perhaps she should have brought some biscuits or fruit . . . was that what one normally does in the event of a death?

The woman was startled out of her thoughts by a light tug on her sleeve. She jerked away, recoiling more swiftly than a snake, and looked down.

A runty, mouse-haired boy stared back at her; he had a toy car in one hand. His eyes were the same shade as his now-dead father's, and he had Carla's full cheeks and narrow chin.  _Matthew._

The name felt sour on her tongue. She spat it out. "Matthew."

"Auntie." The little boy held his arms out to her; after a brief hesitation, Meredith scooped him up and held him at an arm's-length.

"Where have you been, Matthew?" she asked, gray eyes locked on brown. "Did your mother take you out today?" She thought briefly of the wet raincoat lying crumpled at her feet.

The boy squirmed in her arms. "We saw daddy."

"And then?" Meredith gave the boy a small shake. She felt his heartbeat flutter against the pad of her thumb.

"Mummy went in by herself, and Ming bought me a candy. It was good—I think it was strawberry. Then we went to look at the fish tank, and she asked me if I could find the turtle."

"Who the hell is Ming?" Meredith lowered Matthew back down.

"She's a nurse."

"Did you see your father?"

"He was sleeping when I went into the room. It made Mummy upset. And then everyone was making her write on these papers. And then we came home and she said she had to lie down." Matthew sent his car rolling into the next room. "I think she's sick. Can you see?"

A swell of irritation rose in Meredith. Could the boy be so oblivious? She took a deep breath through her nose and let her nerves settle. Then she bent over and beckoned him over. "I have something to tell you, Matthew."

He bounded over, brown eyes cheerful.

"Your father is dead."

As Matthew rocked back on his heels, Meredith swept past him and continued her way down the hall. She stopped to make a spot of tea in the kitchen.

Soon, there were two sets of sobs echoing through the little house.

                                    * * * * * *

"Luce, I think it's time you told us what you know."

I glanced up from my mug of hot cocoa, prickles of unease running down my spine. The kitchen, which we had retreated back into, felt suddenly too cramped and warm. The ceiling lamp seemed to be casting me into a sudden spotlight; at this, the thought of leaping to my feet and bursting unexpectedly into high-pitched song bloomed in my mind.

I fought back a grin and instead took a sip of my drink. The chocolate felt like it burned my throat. "You already know I went to DEPRAC."

"Right. And I have no more comments on that, I promise," Lockwood said. He was draped across one of the kitchen chairs, fiddling with our new mag-flares. One lock of hair was draped across his eyes; as I watched, he stretched and flicked it absently back into place.

"Right . . . okay, good."

"Except for maybe how incredibly reckless it was."

"All  _right_."

"And how it endangered the whole team."

I wiped hot cocoa residue off my upper lip and sighed loudly. "Can I just get on with this?"

"Hey, I'm only making sure you remember," Lockwood told me sternly, but his eyes were bright and laughing. I glared at him.

George was stacking a pile of doughnuts onto a blue plastic plate; sugar and cream dusted his fingertips. He paused in his work to lick a glob of chocolate from his thumb. "I have a question. How did you know that DEPRAC would have the bear?"

"I didn't," I admitted. "It was just a hunch. But I figured it was worth a go. I'd already been planning to slip off to DEPRAC from the start; that old woman from the shop just gave me an excuse to do it."

The plate of doughnuts thumped onto the table. George plucked a plump one from the top and bit into it as he sat down in a nearby chair, scooting it forwards so that he was sitting with us. Sugar dusted across his cheeks. "Mmm. Jelly. My favorite."

"Did you get any of the maple kind, Luce?" Lockwood leaned forward in his seat and sifted through the pile of treats.

"Yeah. At least, I think I did." I frowned. "It was only a few days ago."

"Did they have the brown icing?" George asked. He had set his doughnut down and was now tugging out a notebook from the drawer behind him. "If so, then I ate them."

"I got three," I said indignantly.

"So?"

Lockwood sat back in his seat, one chocolate doughnut in hand, and nodded at me. He had a bit of frosting smeared across the back of his hand. "Back to my earlier question. What happened in DEPRAC? What do you know?"

George uncapped a pen and flipped to a blank sheet of paper. He and Lockwood stared at me in anticipation.

I curled my hand tightly around my cocoa and tried to relax. "My Talent's been getting stronger. You saw for yourselves how I dealt with the Raincoat Man . . . anyway, I thought that I could find something else this time." I stared down into my drink. "It was strange. It started off joyful, all apples and tea, and then I felt fear . . . confusion . . . I saw something—eyes—"

George stopped in mid-chew. "What color?"

"Gray."

Lockwood drummed his fingers against the tabletop. "Luce, don't you think . . . if I'm remembering right . . ."

Our eyes met one another's. He smiled faintly at me, like he was trying to apologize before he said the words. I didn't do anything at all, just sat still in my seat and stared back at him.

" . . . Doesn't  _Meredith Watson_  have gray eyes?"

I'm not sure how long we sat at the table, slightly stunned. It could have been a few seconds, or maybe minutes. All I know is that a small rope of weight was hefted onto my shoulders after that. I felt drained of all energy.

The cat, which had been strangely quiet this whole time, piped up from its position on the kitchen counter. Lockwood gathered it up in his arms and sat back down.

There was another silence. We seemed to be having a lot of them lately.

"So. We just found a murderer," George said. He was wiping his glasses habitually on his sweater. Beady black eyes stared out from his round face at Lockwood and I. "Now what?"

"We call DEPRAC, I suppose," Lockwood replied slowly. He seemed far away, not quite here with us in the kitchen. One hand slowly stroked across the cat's back. "And Scotland Yard."

"Hold on," I interrupted. I felt my brows draw across my forehead; my hands tightened in their grip on my mug. "What's that going to do? And what are you going to say, anyway? Gray eyes. That's hardly any evidence at all. DEPRAC already hates us. They won't listen to a word we say, much less if it's something as insignificant as that."

Anthony Lockwood folded his hands on top of our marked-up kitchen table; the cat darted off of his lap and disappeared into the next room. His lips were set in a hard line. "As far as I recall, Luce,  _you_  were the one who was all over any piece of evidence we found.  _You_  were the one that wanted to find the murderer. What's up with this? Why the sudden change in attitude?"

"There is no change in attitude!" I cried. "All I'm saying is, let's take a moment and think about this."

"About what? Scour our minds for all the other gray-eyed people we've seen? If that's the case, then maybe Inspector  _Barnes_  is the murderer. God knows how that would have come about, though."

George dunked his doughnut into a mug of hot cocoa. "I dunno, he could be hiding tons of secrets in that scruffy 'stache of his."

"The gray eyes could mean anything, though," I persisted. "Maybe it was someone Matthew loved."

"You said that you saw the image of the eyes after you felt 'fear and confusion,'" George pointed out. "I highly doubt that it was someone he loved."

Lockwood had been watching me closely. Now, he shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. "This is because you're on good terms with Watson, isn't it?"

Again, the kitchen felt too warm and too cramped.

"She made me soup," I muttered. "That's hardly a characteristic of a murderer."

"And Fairfax seemed to be a genial old man that wouldn't harm an ant until we discovered he brutally killed a young woman and hid her cold body in a bricked-up chimney," George said.

"I agree with George's point." Lockwood's face seemed to be too long and empty when he wasn't smiling. When his lips were as straight and flat as they were now, it was like he was somebody I didn't know at all.

I hopped to my feet.

"Look," I said. "Call them if you want. I'm going upstairs."

And that's where I was headed, or where I was about to go, when the phone suddenly rang.

I was on my feet, and I was the closest, so it was with a groan that I snatched the phone off its cord and pressed it up to my ear. At first, there was nothing but the sound of low static.

Then:

"Is this Lockwood and Co.?" Meredith Watson asked.

                                                            * * * * *

3 ½ years ago

Into the gloom.

Thorns pricked at her hands and legs as Meredith Watson forced her way through the thicket, taking no mind of both the pinpricks of blood welling on her skin and the crushing dark. The only source of light came from a battered torch in her hand, which cast a greasy glow across the forest floor. As she waded through the nasty undergrowth, equally foul curses flowed freely from her lips.

"  _. . . them all to hell!"_ she snarled, pausing in her trek. Her breath came out in harsh pants, steaming in the chilly air; somewhere, an owl hooted mournfully. Meredith Watson drew herself up straighter and felt her hands clench into tight fists.

Keep calm.

The torch's light wavered and then went out.

"Oh . . .  _BLOODY_ HELL!" A scream tore itself from her throat, and Meredith swung the useless torch against the side of a nearby tree. It bounced off harmlessly and spun deep into the thicket, sending up a flock of alarmed sparrows.

Meredith scowled into the night. She could  _kill_ someone right now, just take a machete and keep hacking until the anger was gone . . . that cursed, cursed anger . . . oh, what would Carla think . . .

And then, just as quickly as it had come, her temper was gone.

Meredith stared blankly up into the treetops and felt the chill wind touch her heart. Then, when she was completely numb, a woman of ice and snow, Meredith blinked. She turned.

She kept walking.

The small house came into view some time later. It was a quaint property just on the outskirts of London, on a street that everyone seemed to have forgotten, where the ghost-lamp never seemed to be working and the road was riddled with potholes.

There was a light on in the back of the house.

Meredith set a brisker pace, so that she was almost jogging. Sudden motion out of the corner of her eye; she craned her neck and saw a slender Shade gliding alongside her, eyes dull. Hands outstretched.

"No, no . . . not  _now,"_ Meredith said crossly. She moved faster, sprinting through a grassy field towards the light. There was a stream burbling lazily only a few feet behind the property, and she leaped over it with ease. The Shade stopped there, hands still outstretched, unable to cross the running water. Its eyes were sad.

Meredith paid it no more mind. She pushed through the wooden gate and picked her way through various play equipment.

And then she knocked on Carla Callahan's back door.

Quite out of breath, Meredith straightened her coat and brushed back a few strands of hair. Bad form tonight. She was running several hours late. Hopefully Carla wouldn't mind.

The door creaked open some time later. Her cousin's bewildered face peered out at her. "I— _Meredith?"_

"My apologies for my tardiness," she replied.

Carla's face was flushed. "It's eleven o'clock at night," she hissed. "Meredith, normal people . . . normal people show up during the  _day_ , at the  _front door,_ and usually they call beforehand." She glanced out into the night, a rattling cough erupting from her. "And," she spluttered, "is that a  _Visitor?"_

Meredith moved past her cousin and into the house. "My plane was delayed by four hours in Prague. And then the cab services wouldn't take me because of the time. Otherwise, I would have been here earlier."

Carla scrubbed wearily at her forehead. "Meredith. Why. Are you here." She burst into another round of coughing.

"You're sick! Sounds like pneumonia." Meredith shut the door with her foot and forced her cousin to sit on the sofa. "I'll go make tea and start a nice fire—plus, I have some amazing shortbread in my bag that will go well with Earl Gray."

"It's not pneumonia," Carla said. "I just have a  _cold."_

"You're ill! You need taking care of," Meredith exclaimed. The kitchen was right down the hall; she swept in and grabbed the teacups from the cupboard. The Earl Gray was in the bottom drawer, and the kettle was under the sink . . . within minutes, she had everything boiling nicely.

"Meredith—keep it down! I just got Mattie to sleep." Carla Callahan stood in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, her face still feverishly flushed. "Listen, I'm just going to go to bed. It was certainly . . . kind of you to stop by like this, but I'm fine. Really. Why don't you head back home?"

Meredith scoffed. "And who will look after you?"

"I'm an adult, Mer. I can look after myself."

"Why don't you just sit down here, I've got the tea—"

" _Why don't you listen to me?"_

Meredith jolted to a stop, tea sloshing in the cup in her hand. Her heart began to beat awfully fast in her chest, and she felt a familiar chill settle over her.

Carla was watching her warily. "Look, I get that you feel like you need to take care of me. And after Freddie got ill, I appreciated that. You have no idea. But now . . . I have Mattie, and we're fine. We're good. We'd still love to see you, but . . . you don't have to do  _this._ Right? I mean," she said, laughing nervously, "it's eleven at night, Mer. You said you flew in from  _Prague?"_

There was a dull buzzing in her ears. The teacup felt cold and fragile in her hands.

A woman of ice and snow.

"You don't need me anymore," Meredith said numbly.

"Of course we need you . . . it's just . . . Mattie and I, we—"

" _Mattie_  and you,"she said bitterly. She looked down at the cup in her hand and set it on the counter. The chill was spreading to her hands, and she was worried that her fingers would become too stiff to hold anything.

_Mattie._

A low, simmering anger rose in her, and Meredith's gaze darted up to meet Carla's. "All this time," she said. "Who helped you out when you needed it most? Was it  _Freddie's_ family? His millionaire mother? Who washed the sheets when your kid wet the bed, ran for the groceries,  _everything . . ._ we've been each other's family since we were kids, Carla, and now it's  _Mattie_ and  _you?_ "

Two angry red blotches had appeared in Carla's cheeks. "So this is what it's about?" she snapped. "I should have freaking known. You're jealous of my  _kid?_ He's my son, Meredith! _"_

"I'm not jealous of . . . of Matthew," Meredith replied lowly, wrapping her fingers around the countertop, and the words dug their claws deep into her tongue. "I love him too."

Lies. What dark, delicious things.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

_ Now _

You know that weightless feeling you get in your stomach on rollercoasters? It's an unpleasant lurch in your abdomen, as if someone had taken a spoon and scooped out your insides.

Multiply that by a million, and you might understand how I felt just then.

"Hello?" said the voice again.

I tightened my grip on the telephone, turning my knuckles a stark white. "You've reached Lockwood and Co., Paranormal Agency," I replied warily. Tense words pressed up against my lips; I ripped a paper napkin in half in order to give my jittery hands something to do.

"Oh, is this Lucy Carlily?"

" _Carlyle_." For the thousandth  _bloody_ time, it was  _Carlyle._ I felt my irritation grow, and sucked in a deep breath. Tried to think of warm sandy beaches and gentle waves . . . yep, anger management never really worked for me.

I returned to shredding napkins.

"Right. My apologies." I heard Meredith clear her throat. "Tell me, how are things?"

I glanced back at Lockwood and George. Lockwood's brows were lowered, and his usually expressive lips were pressed together so that they were thin and bloodless. George had his glasses off. Those small, beady eyes of his were staring hard at me. They both looked very impatient.

I wondered if they knew who was on the telephone.

And who  _was_ Meredith, anyway? A possible murderer? Could, as they both believed, Watson have killed Matthew?

I turned back around, throat suddenly dry. There was a half-empty milk carton lying out on the counter; I grabbed it and chugged the whole thing down.

"Things are fine," I said at last, in a curt tone. There was a stain of milk across my upper lip, and I used part of my sleeve to scrub at it. "We're doing fine."

"Well, then." Meredith's voice lowered, gained some urgency. "I have something to tell you, Lucy. It's to do with your agency."

I resisted the urge to glance over my shoulder again.

"You see . . . I found something very  _strange_  the other day."

She was being very dramatic now, stage-whispering in my ear and giving lots of accent to her words. I began to roll my eyes.

"There was an entire file on my younger cousin—and it was compiled by Lockwood and Co. Strange, isn't it?"

My eyes stopped mid-roll; a breath caught in my throat. For a brief moment, I thought I was going to be sick.

_No._

It couldn't be.

"What the hell are you talking about?" I snarled into the phone. "Someone nicked that ages ago . . . we haven't had that file since—hold on,were  _you—"_

"There were articles, photos, clippings, notes . . . it was eerie. Just how much trouble could you land in, I wonder, if Carla Callahan took offense at this?"

My fists clenched. "You took our file."

"Your  _file_ was an invasion of privacy," Meredith Watson replied. Her voice was sickeningly sweet. "I haven't informed my cousin yet, but I believe she could sue. It would be a favorable case. Twenty thousand pounds. Now, just  _how_  much does your agency make a year?"

Not nearly enough.

Why did I always land myself in these situations? How could I have ever believed that Meredith Watson was someone to trust?

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I closed my eyes and leaned my forehead against the kitchen cupboard, completely spent. "What do you want."

"I want you to meet me at the chalk cliffs, Lucy. You have two and a half hours. Be there."

I glared into the cupboard. A can of tuna and several bags of beans looked back. Silence for a few seconds; then I pushed myself away from the counter and stalked into the middle of the kitchen, dragging the phone line with me.

"Fine," I snarled. "I'll be there."

Meredith's tone lightened immediately. "I'll think you'll quite enjoy the place, actually. The scenery is very beautiful." She laughed softly. "Good bye, Lucy Carlily."

"It's  _Car—_ "

The line went dead.

I stood there for a moment, the phone in hand, feeling completely at a loss.  _Twenty thousand pounds._

"Who was that?" George asked quietly. I got the feeling that he already knew, based off of the glint in his eyes and the calculating way he was rubbing at his glasses.

But for a moment, standing there and looking at the two of them, I considered telling a lie. I could solve this on my own—it was my fault that we were in this mess, anyway . . . if I hadn't been so obsessed . . .  _twenty thousand pounds . . ._ The false words were on the tip of my tongue, one slip away from rolling off into the open air.

"I—"

_No._

I pressed my lips together, horrified.

_No more lies._

I remembered Lockwood's face when he had discovered that I'd gone to DEPRAC; George's expression when we'd screamed at each other, so hurt and betrayed; and I still remembered standing on the doorstep of number 35 Portland Row, pressing the bell with some nervousness, wondering if I'd be let back in . . .

We were a team—but we were more than that, too. We were a family of sorts. Possible the grimiest, strangest, and most dysfunctional family in all of London, but that was what we were.

No more secrets.

* * * * * *

Afternoon lay quietly over Portland Row, tucking itself in with smooth touches of golden light. There were hardly any clouds in the pale blue sky above; from outside, the wind carried the sound of laughing children at play.

All in all, it was the perfect time to go confront a murderer.

I pulled the ratty shoelaces of my sneakers into a tight knot and then stood, rapier bumping at my hip, eyes rising slowly, to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. It was a dinged-up piece of work, with cracks in the glass running like veins down its surface. The girl inside it stared back out at me coolly. Her shoulders were slouched; she looked tired.

I ran comforting fingers over the hilt of my rapier and then left my room.

Lockwood and Co.'s leader and its deputy were gathered around the front door, waiting. They started a bit when I leaped from the fourth step to the ground. Lockwood swiveled on his heel and flashed me a brief grin.

"Ready to go?" he asked.

A sharp nod.

"Right, then. George—you have the map? Good. Our train leaves in an hour. Let's head out."

The three of us scooted out the door and into the clear spring day. Lockwood immediately set off down the sidewalk at a brisk pace, with George trotting behind—I took a moment to stand on the porch and marvel, once again, at the fact that  _they weren't upset with me._

Okay. Maybe a little bit.

But the news  _had_ gone down rather smoothly. We'd sat around and had a bit of a serious chat, in which I stared most of the time at the doughnut on my plate, then begun to grab our things, quickly and without much delay. The  _twenty thousand pounds_ was lurking behind our backs like a ticking bomb.

Twenty thousand pounds. Meredith Watson. Dead fathers, murdered sons, and broken mothers.

I exhaled slowly. The spring sunshine painted a golden swathe down my cheek.

Then I gathered myself together and took off after the others.

                                                * * * * *

The three of us boarded the four o'clock train for Dover, after a brief hullabaloo where George misplaced our tickets (they'd somehow gotten stuck to the bottom of his shoe) and Lockwood realized he'd forgotten to lock our front door (resulting in a record time for the five-mile sprint to Portland Row and back). I took my usual seat by the window and propped my chin in my palm, staring out at the crowded station; George settled into the seat across from me, while Lockwood got up to have a quick peek at the gossip magazines arrayed further down the train.

"Are you all right, Lucy?"

I raised my head, expecting Lockwood, but he was nowhere in sight. Instead, there was George. He lowered his newspaper and, in a rare show of kindness, offered me a smile. It was quite transformational to his face, pushing up his cheeks and wiping away the usual dour look he wore.

I pushed away a strand of hair that had fallen into my eyes and smiled faintly back at him. "I—thanks, George. I'm fine."

"Do you want to take a look at the paper?"

"No, not really. Thanks."

"Nothing interesting ever makes it into the  _papers."_ Lockwood dropped into the seat beside me, with pastries and a steaming plastic cup in one hand, and offered me a magazine. I shook my head. "The last time I read the  _Local Tribune,_ the lead story was about how Ms. Jones' kitty got stuck in a tree. I barely got through it."

"Because it was so boring?"

"Because it was so  _touching._ " Lockwood took a sip of coffee, his face perfectly calm. Then his eyes twinkled at me, a corner of his mouth went lopsided, and I knew he was joking.

George reached out and slid one of the pastries out of Lockwood's arms. "When are we getting to Dover?"

"We should be arriving in less than an hour," Lockwood said briskly. He tugged the map out of George's backpack. "That gives us forty-five minutes to get to the Chalk Cliffs and find Meredith Watson. Any idea on what she's planning to do?"

None of us knew.

"Nasty woman," Lockwood commented, flipping open the map and tracing a finger along our route. "I mean—all we had was a file. She could've asked for it."

I leaned back in my chair as the train started to move, pulling itself forward with laborious turns of the wheels. The station slid past and then disappeared as we picked up speed, hustling down the tracks. My eyes slid to watch it go. "I wonder why she did it."

"The file was on her cousin," George agreed. He'd accepted a pastry from Lockwood and was now inhaling it with gusto. "Nothing about her at all. Except for maybe a small newspaper clipping, but that was nothing. It's strange."

"Not just that," I persisted. "I was wondering . . . why she would have murdered Matthew. Her motive? I mean, stuff like this doesn't just  _happen_ out of nowhere."

Lockwood regarded me from over the top of his coffee. "You're right. But it doesn't matter anymore. What's done is done."

The train pulled on.

                                                                                                                  * * * * *

Towering walls of white rock, shining in the sun, strong and sturdy and defiant against the Channel water that beat against its shores. The Chalk Cliffs were a spectacular sight to see, even on the worst of days—and this was one of the clearest ones. I'd been here once before, with my sister Mary and her boyfriend on a brief day trip, but all I can remember is the cold wind and trudging behind them as they strolled along the cliff face.

I took the last few steps to the top of the cliffs and stared out at the deep blue water. Lockwood and George were behind me, still straggling up the path to the cliff. It stretched for several miles to either side, further than we could easily spot one Meredith Watson. We hadn't taken this factor into account, and now it was coming back to bite us in the bum.

I groaned in frustration and put my hands on my hips. "Okay, what now? The cliffs stretch on for miles and miles—we can't find her like  _this._  We've probably come all the way here for nothing." I scowled at the ground and kicked at a pebble lying in the way.

George blinked and rubbed at his glasses. "But she's right there."

Now it was my turn to blink, startled. I turned around.

A few yards away stood Meredith Watson, unperturbed by the strong wind that gusted around us, hands jammed into the pockets of her coat. She offered us a small smile.

"Walk with me," she said.


	7. confrontation

I've dealt with things that would make most adults quake in their boots. I have fought the shadowy creatures that go bump in the night, survived the Red Room, connected with spirits, and escaped (mostly) unscathed; I am a member of the acclaimed Lockwood and Co. agency, which routinely saves London from disaster, among other insignificant extracurricular activities.

I am not, and have never been, afraid of the dark.

As Marissa Fittes famously proclaimed on her deathbed, "the dead are easy to deal with; it is the living that you should fear."

In other words, I could hang out with ghastly paranormal beings all I liked, but it was the thought of having a conversation with Meredith Watson that made me nervous enough to be sick.

 _She_ was still standing there, hands tucked into her coat, a pleasant smile frozen on her face. "Well," she said. "Are you coming?"

I shifted on my feet and fought the instinct to draw my rapier. "Sure, we are."

Meredith's eyes rolled in their sockets before drifting coolly over my head. She frowned slightly. "The boys stay. They don't need to hear anything."

"Yeah . . . that's where you're wrong," I said cheerily. The forced smile faded on my face as quickly has it had come, and it was replaced by a solid face of stone. "We're a team. We do things together. That's kind of the point."

If Meredith was upset, she didn't show it. Her expression, her gaze, neither of them wavered. Her face was as still and calm as a clear pond . . . And then she smirked. The ugly look sat on her face like a curve of something rotting, all sour and grotesque.

" _Alone,"_ said Meredith Watson. _"_ Have you forgotten the twenty thousand pounds, Lucy Carlily?"

"My memory is  _fine."_ The words spilled out in an irritated rush.

She smirked again.

I felt my temper beginning to surface, a hot red anger that boiled underneath the skin. "You know what? Go ahead and sue!" I crossed my arms. " _We don't care_."

George made a small, weak sound of protest.

"Either Lockwood and George come with us, or we don't talk," I continued. "There are no secrets here. Not anymore." My face was flushed red, my fists were clenched, and I was  _not_ going to back down. I noticed absently that I had moved forwards as I spoke, and was now almost face-to-face with Meredith.

Silence on the chalk cliffs.

Then the woman nodded her head grudgingly, her scarf fluttering madly in the wind. She walked off; after a moment's pause, the three of us stalked after her.

The sun held itself high in the sky, but a thick layer of gray clouds shielded us from above. This gave the surroundings a dull color that matched Meredith's eyes. The cold air had left the night's frost still crackling on the grass, and it crunched under our feet in a steady rhythm as we walked.

"I used to come here when I was younger," Meredith said. Her voice was soft and dreamy. "We would fly kites. Carla and I, I mean. We did everything together. There were summers where we would ride our bikes along the cliff and race the wind. We never won, of course. Carla always said she could."

"Nice to hear," Lockwood said. The smile that flashed briefly on his face looked a bit like a harried wolf's. "You had a great childhood? Brilliant. Now, about the case . . .?"

"Maybe we can speed things up a bit," I agreed.

Meredith tilted her head back and stared up at the gray sky. The weather matched her eyes. Picture it: her fair hair bundled up around the red scarf, cheeks shocked white from the cold, hands jammed in her pockets, and those gray eyes staring upwards. A blank expression on her face, as though she were thinking of nothing—or perhaps something too terrible to remember.

That's how I remember her, now. That's how I see her in my head. A washed-out face with dull eyes, lost in the pain.

"I am not a good person," Meredith Watson said. Her voice was so soft that we had to lean in to hear. "I know that. And I have never been loved, not in the way that a parent should love their child. Because my parents never loved me."

"Your parents?" George asked slowly. His forehead was scrunched. The bone-searing breeze had smacked his cheeks into a ruddy complexion, and blown his glasses into a downward angle on his face.

"They're dead now," Meredith replied casually. My eyes flicked of their own accord from her face to Lockwood's; he had gone all stiff and pale, and his eyes were hard. Dead parents were a rough topic for him.

"How?" I asked—and instantly regretted it.  _Think before you speak, Lucy. Why don't you ever think before you speak?_

Meredith's ever-present smile faded slightly.

"Car accident," she said. "Or so they say. They were on vacation in Germany and drove themselves off a cliff." She drew herself upright and cocked her head at Lockwood. "I understand that your parents are gone as well. How very  _sad._  You must have been devastated."

Lockwood's eyes glittered. "You've been reading the old papers," he replied, in a voice that was deadly calm. "Been to the Archives lately, have you?"

Meredith picked at a nail. "Perhaps." Another tilt of the head. "How did they pass? Something to do with the business you're in, I would assume. Quite a pity. You were so young . . . But I suppose that you're glad that they're gone . . . you have quite a new level of independence now, after all. Don't you?"

George and I stood frozen in our places, quite taken by surprise, but imagine a statue—stony and utterly motionless—and you would have Lockwood in that moment. Only his eyes seemed alive, but they were wide and lost. I hardly dared to breathe. George glanced away and rubbed at his glasses with an awkward fervor.

Meredith seemed to enjoy the atmosphere that she had created.

"Have I touched a nerve?" she asked. Her voice was coy and sweet as honey. "I'm sorry. There are better topics, of course. Like the weather. And shall we discuss other things?"

"Like what we came here for?" I said harshly, regaining my voice. I stepped forward and jabbed a finger towards her. "Tell us what you know about what happened to Matthew Callahan."

That's when Lockwood raised his head. The words died in my throat at the look on his face; there was a dark fury gathering in his eyes. His face pinched for a moment; then the words rushed out of him in a low snarl. " _You killed him,_  didn't you?"

Meredith paused. She seemed to be struggling for something to say.

"Yes. I did," she said at last, in a high, clear tone. There was relief in it, and perhaps a bit of fear. Her voice became clipped. "I  _did._ The brat deserved it."

The wind chilled me right to the bone as I stared up at Meredith Watson. A murderer. We'd been right.

A murderer.

Matthew Callahan's sad face was there when I closed my eyes; when I opened them again, I saw only Meredith Watson's pale, relieved one. As if she were glad to have admitted to murder.

Why be glad?

                                    * * * * * *

Several weeks ago, before the Callahans and Meredith Watson, before the broken promises and angry words and all this mess had even begun, a midnight caller came to number 35 Portland Row.

Rain was drumming steadily on the porch when I swung the front door open, eyes bleary and gummed-up from sleep. The night air was chilly; it woke me up enough to squint my eyes and mumble an irritated greeting in the general direction of the client standing on our doorstep.

Perhaps it was the smell of my breath (I couldn't remember if I'd brushed my teeth that night), the way my hair was frizzed and matted, or the permanent scowl on my face. Either way, something about me was unwelcoming. The trembling figure at the door began to back away, squeaking apologies and tripping over loose chunks of brick on the path.

"Wait," I said, fighting back a yawn. "Come back here." I used my rapier to gesture at the client in a friendly way.

The figure backpedalled even faster.

"Oh, for— _LOCKWOOD!_ GEORGE!" I bellowed up the stairs. " _Client!"_

Sometime within the next decade, we were all seated grouchily in the living room. George fetched a pot of tea and some sweet things. Then we did our best to stay awake, sit forward, and hear our client's story.

The gist of it was that a Visitor had been shadowing the client, a certain Miss Moore, throughout the house every night. It was always two steps behind her and was felt through icy chills and out-of-place breezes. Things were breaking randomly; cupboards would open and spill mugs out onto the floor. Windows would shatter out of the blue.

"I thought I could manage it," she'd said to us, stammering over her words. Her eyes were bright and panicked. "I've never trusted agents, they've always seemed a bit fishy to me, but tonight . . ." She took a shaky sip of tea to steel her nerves. "I was standing at the top of the stairs," she said, "and it . . . it pushed me."

We ushered the poor woman out of our house with more soft words and bundles of cake, then set to work. The clock was ticking. Ghosts were lurking. Night was passing swiftly, so we had to move fast. Less than an hour later, we arrived at number 2 Hooper Court.

"Based on Miss Moore's tale, it looks like all we've got on our hands is a Specter." Lockwood unlocked the front door, grinned widely at us, and pushed the door open with ease. "This should be a piece of cake."

Several hours later, the ghost had gone rogue, and once again Lockwood and Co. found itself in a mess. The entire street, as it turned out, was heavily clustered with Visitors from the World War II era. We wound up chasing the escaped Visitor down the lamp-lit block, cursing under our breaths and taking swipes at the Wraiths and Shades that drifted too close.

We caught up to our Visitor under the branches of a dying mulberry tree. There wasn't even time to catch our breath. It lunged, we swiped; moonlight glinted on the cold steel of our rapiers.

"Is it just me, or are there two of them?" George asked nervously. He ducked under a thick lash of ectoplasm.

I cut through two writhing strands and took another look. There were, in fact, three Visitors in the fray now; the mass of ghosts along the street were all creeping closer, heads cocked to the side. Taking interest.

A breath hissed through my teeth and became steam in the icy air. "Lockwood . . ."

He was pressed up against the tree, chucking salt at the coils of ectoplasm gathering around his feet. "A bit busy right now," he said, and then stabbed downward with his rapier. The coils retreated.

"Lockwood!  _Look up."_

Lockwood glanced upward. His eyes widened; his mouth drooped open almost comically.

The crowd of ghosts pressed in further, murmuring to each other. They were almost all Type Twos and higher levels of Type One. I had never seen so many ghosts in one place before. Their radiance cast a bright white glow over the lawn, which was now crusted with frost.

I'm not sure what we would have done if the high-pitched wail of an alarm hadn't erupted right then. It resounded throughout the cramped street and blasted our ears. I spun on my heel, still hacking away at ectoplasm, and craned my neck around the side of the tree.

A large DEPRAC van was parked on the curb, alarms wailing, lights flashing. My heart sank into my stomach.

"We've got company," George said darkly.

Agents clothed in black spilled out of the back of the van, rapiers held ready. Salt bombs burst forth; the resplendence of exploding mag-flares dazzled our eyes. The Visitors scattered and fled into the gloom. DEPRAC agents bounded after them, swift as hounds after a deer.

I attached my rapier back to my belt, brushed some dust off my sweater. George did fiddly things with his glasses. Lockwood found the pattern of the tree's bark to be one of the most intriguing things he'd ever seen.

All in all, we managed to avoid eye contact with Inspector Barnes for a good thirty seconds before he came storming over.

"Of all the idiotic things—" He sputtered and choked on his bristly moustache. Then he proceeded more calmly, though a red flush began to creep up his neck as he spoke. "We received a call from one of the Hooper Court residents, reporting three unknown agents flailing around in her front yard. The scene itself was shocking—a total breach of rules—you should have retreated and _called for backup . . ._ this was a complete disregard for safety, a disgrace on your company . . ."

I could feel our reputation sinking lower and lower into the dirt. Lockwood's eyes were growing dark and expressionless, his lips pulling tight, which were signs that I had to come to recognize as one of frustration and upset.

The headlines tomorrow would be ruinous, particularly for his well-crafted image. We'd only just had our fifteen minutes of fame and spotlight for the Red Room case.

I don't know what made me do it.

"It was me," I said.

Barnes stopped his spluttering. "What?"

"I made them stay. I told them I wasn't leaving, and so they had to stay to help me. So really, it's my fault. Don't blame them and don't blame the agency. It was me," I said.

George stirred beside me. "Shut up, Luce," he said. "I know it's hard for you, but don't be an idiot."

Lockwood and Inspector Barnes both winced and glanced away. I saw red.

" _Me?"_ I poked a finger against George's chest and leaned in. "Of all things, George Cubbins,  _I'm_ the idiot? And don't you tell me to shut up! Next time, maybe I won't even bother to save your skin!"

"Oh, fine."

" _Fine!"_

Maybe being self-sacrificing wasn't my strong suit.

It seemed to work, however, because Barnes let us off with only a warning. We trudged back to number 2, gritting our teeth at the smug DEPRAC agents that passed us by, and gathered up our things. The grand agency of Lockwood and Co. then took the Tube home and promptly fell asleep in the living room.

There were no mentions of the case in the next day's paper, nor the day after's. The case went mostly forgotten, brought up only in snide comments between George and I during the occasional (daily) fight. Life proceeded as usual.

In fact, the encounter would have slipped my mind entirely if not for the Chalk Cliffs and a stony woman with gray eyes.

"We're done here," Meredith Watson was saying. "Shake my hand and then let us go." She held out a hand to me, smooth as marble and pink with cold.

She was a murderer. The killer of an innocent child.

Her thin lips were stretched in a parody of a smile.

Time was still frozen for me. I stared back at her, unmoving.

It was cold on the Chalk Cliffs. The air smelled of the sea. I could almost see the two little girls running along the cliff-face, laughing, hand-in-hand. One of them had gray eyes the color of stormy clouds.

"No," I said.

Meredith's outstretched hand closed. She drew it back in toward her, tucked it into a pocket. She frowned. "Perhaps you've forgotten our agreement, Miss Carlily. I have your folder on Carla—"

"No," I repeated. "No . . . it wasn't  _you_. Was it?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You didn't kill Matthew Callahan."

Meredith licked her lips. Her eyes shifted in their sockets, moving from Lockwood to George to me. "You're right," she agreed. Her words tumbled out in a rush. "I didn't just kill, I . . . I  _murdered_ him, didn't I? Did away with my own nephew, the brat."

I shook my head. "George," I said over my shoulder. "Remind me. Why wasn't Meredith convicted of killing Matthew?"

"She was a major suspect, because she was babysitting him at the time of his death. But there was no evidence. Nothing linked it to her." George blinked twice. He removed his glasses. "D'you think . . ."

"You wanted them to think it was you," I said to Meredith. "Didn't you? You were protecting her."

The woman flinched visibly and lifted a hand, as if she could use it to ward off my words. "No," she said. " _Stop_."

I stepped forward, persistent. "You were  _protecting her,"_ I said. "And all along, you let us think it was you . . . when really, it was Carla that killed him."

Meredith shook her head. "No. No."

"I'm right. Aren't I?"

The woman with the gray eyes sank to her knees in the scrubby grass, as though she could no longer support her own weight. The wind blew her hair in clumps over her face; her normal icy demeanor was broken and replaced by something painful. Tears fell unbidden into the dirt.

Down below, the waves beat unforgivingly at the Chalk Cliffs.


	8. the end

Once, in house number 35 on a quiet street named Portland Row, there lived a girl and two boys.

They came from different places, had painful pasts that went unsaid, and delved into a line of work that called for harder hearts than most. The lingering presence of the dead was a constant shadow at their backs. But they grew under a rickety ceiling with the cold glint of rapiers in hand, and they fought and bled and laughed together.

Family—because that's what it was—made the night seem a little less dark.

And so, I reflected, did Lockwood's perpetually chipper grin. It was at 100 megawatts right now, beaming into my face so brightly that I had to resist the urge to reach for my sunglasses. Ladies could have stood beside him to get their annual summer tan.

"Happy, are we?" I said, straightening up to scratch a measurement in my notebook. The growing breeze threatened to tear the sheets of paper right out of my hand. I snatched them back with an irritated curse.

We were standing on front porch of an old Victorian-style home; it was the oldest one on the block, and it had the kind of crusty and mildewed scent that comes from age and lack of love. George and I were scattered across the porch steps, taking measurements by the railings and along its wooden pillars. Apparently an old man had been shot dead here one evening, while he'd been out for a quick smoke.

"You get anything, Luce?" George asked. He straightened up as well, fumbling with one hand to hoist up his sagging pants. The other hand flapped wildly at Lockwood, waving his sheaf of paper wildly in the wind. "It's all normal down here, or else our thermometers have left us high and dry. Or maybe he was shot inside. Wouldn't  _that_ be nasty to find."

"All right, all right." Lockwood clapped his hands sharply, grinned widely around at the rest of us. "Guess that means we'll just have to see what's lurking inside, then, doesn't it? And George—you  _really_  need to get a belt."

I'll pretend not to remember what George remarked after that.

Lockwood searched around for a bit in one pocket, then fished out the house key and fitted it dramatically into the slot. The wind had picked up again; it blew my hair back into my eyes and send Lockwood's coattails whipping around. George came up the steps, heaving our bags along, and stood beside me. His glasses sat crookedly along the bridge of his nose, and they twinkled in the evening light as we waited.

"Murders are always the most fun," George said, jokingly. His voice trailed off toward the end, as if in realization, and his eyes darted swiftly to glance at me. I stared calmly back.

Yes, they were such a bundle of joy. And no, it wouldn't be a problem anymore.

There had been a trial. Tears. The sentencing of Carla Callahan for the murder of her own son, in an act of drunken grief after the death of her husband. She would be in prison for life. Meredith Watson would serve her own time, as well. Lockwood, George, and I had all testified at the trial, but Carla had already pleaded guilty on the stand. I suppose that you can only run for so long.

She and Meredith both cried, at the end.

I still saw large brown eyes at night. There was crying in my dreams; it sounded like a young boy. Sometimes he told me he was cold.

But I knew that if I were to wake up one night in cold sweat, with the echoes of tears and eyes in my dreams, I could always slide out of bed. The floorboards would be cold under my toes, and outside I would see the ghost-lamps blink on and off, their bright white light shining into my bedroom. Lockwood and George's doors were only a flight of stairs away. There had been a series of hot chocolates at midnight after the trial, with all of us tucked closely together on the couch in the library.

Sometimes, I would find Lockwood waiting up already in the kitchen, two mugs of tea in his hand. And, as always, a smile.

Matthew Callahan had received his justice; Lockwood and Co. had not been broken.

The key turned in its lock with a faint  _click._

Lockwood swung the door open, and we all bent forward to look; I hoisted up one of our duffel bags. I'd packed our cookies, and the tea, and all the other necessary essentials. My rapier was settled comfortingly against one hip.

"Are we ready?" Lockwood asked. He smiled.

"As we'll ever be," I replied.

And with that, we stepped together into the dark.

_The End._

 


End file.
